ornia 


M"' 


THE   WINGS   OF   ICARUS 


THE 

WINGS   OF    ICARUS 

BEING 

THE  LIFE  OF  ONE  EMILIA  FLETCHER 

AS   REVEALED    BY   HERSELF  IN 

I.   THIRTY-FIVE  LETTERS 

WRITTEN  TO  CONSTANCE  NORRIS  BETWEEN 
JULY  i8TH,  188-,  AND  MARCH  26TH  OF 

THE   FOLLOWING   YEAR 

II.   A  FRAGMENTARY  JOURNAL 
III.   A  POSTSCRIPT 

BY 

LAURENCE  ALMA  TADEMA 


MACMILLAN  AND  COMPANY 

AND   LONDON 
1894 

All  rights  rt served 


COPYRIGHT,  1894, 
Bv  MACMILLAN  AND  CO. 


NortnooD 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


THE   LETTERS. 


17117C9 


THE  WINGS   OF  ICARUS. 

LETTER  I. 

FLETCHER'S  HALL,  GRAYSMILL, 
July  1 8th. 

Dear  and  Beloved  Constance,  —  What 
shall  I  say  to  you?  Here  I  sit,  in  a 
strange  room,  in  a  strange  land,  —  and 
my  life  lies  behind  me.  It  is  close  upon 
midnight,  and  very  dark.  I  can  see  noth- 
ing out  of  window.  The  air  is  hot  and 
heavy,  the  moths  flutter  round  my  candle  ; 
I  cannot  save  them  all.  I  am  trying  to 
write  you  a  letter  —  do  you  understand? 
Oh,  but  I  have  no  thoughts,  only  visions  ! 
Three  there  are  that  rise  before  me,  some- 
times separately,  sometimes  all  together. 

I  see  you,  Mrs.  Norris.  We  are  stand- 
ing on  the  platform,  side  by  side ;  people 
3 


4  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

push  past  us,  shouting,  running,  but  I  see 
only  you.  Your  hat  fell  back  just  now  as 
you  stood  on  tip-toe  to  kiss  me,  and  the 
pale  brown  curls  with  their  golden  threads 
shine  in  the  lamplight;  your  eyes  are 
open  very  wide,  they  are  very  blue,  and 
tears  cover  your  cheeks.  I  feel  your  arms 
round  my  neck  as  I  clasp  you  to  me. 

The  vision  fades,  and  another  rises  :  an 
open  grave  in  the  Campo  Santo.  The 
sun  falls  upon  it, — why  should  the  sun 
shine?  I  wait  until  the  rest  are  gone, 
then  I  peer  down  into  the  earthy  hole, 
saying  to  myself,  "  There  my  mother  lies 
—  that  is  my  mother."  And  when  I  turn 
to  go,  I  see  a  group  of  little  children ;  they 
have  come,  perhaps,  to  smell  the  flowers. 
Why  were  they  born,  those  little  children  ? 

Then,  the  third  vision :  a  man's  back 
going  out  of  a  door.  I  seldom  see  his 
face  now,  only  his  back  as  he  left  me  that 
evening.  He  never  looked  behind,  al- 


Letter  I.  5 

though  I  wrote  "  I  love  you "  with  my 
eyes  upon  his  shoulders ;  and  next  day 
the  letter  came. 

As  dark  as  the  land  lies  out  of  the  win- 
dow there,  so  dark  lie  the  days  before 
me.  I  am  unutterably  lonely.  I  had 
three ;  but  they  are  gone  from  me,  taken 
by  death,  distance,  and  infidelity.  And 
as  I  sit  here  in  ignorance  of  the  to-be, 
knowing  only  what  has  been,  and  what  is 
gone  for  ever,  I  cannot  make  myself  be- 
lieve that  I  have  not  seen  my  day  and  my 
day's  end.  Yet  to-morrow  morning,  when 
I  awake  and  look  out  of  window,  I  shall 
see  trees  and  meadows,  —  hills,  perhaps, 
beneath  the  sky.  Who  knows  but  what, 
if  I  live  my  day  through  bravely  and  with 
patience,  some  light  may  break  again 
upon  my  heart? 

July  19. 

Good  morning,  dearest.  It  is  half-past 
six  and  a  sunny  morning;  I  have  been 


6  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

leaning  out  of  window  in  my  night-gown, 
watching  the  mists  rise  in  the  valley.  The 
air  is  very  sweet  here  in  England;  I  see 
oceans  of  trees,  great  stretches  of  heath 
and  meadow.  Surely,  surely  one  ought  to 
be  happy  in  this  beautiful  world !  I  shall 
dress  quickly  and  go  out.  This  letter, 
such  as  it  is,  shall  go  to  you  by  the  first 
post,  and  to-night  I  shall  write  again, 
when  I  myself  know  something  of  my 
surroundings.  Good-bye  then  for  the 
present,  my  best  and  dearest. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  II. 

July  19. 

It  is  just  half-past  ten,  my  Constance; 
the  two  old  ladies  have  gone  to  bed.  I 
am  getting  on  very  well,  on  the  whole, 
although  I  had  the  misfortune  to  keep 
them  waiting  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
for  breakfast  this  morning.  It  was  so 
beautiful  out  of  doors,  and  I  was  so  happy 
roaming  in  field  and  wood, —  happy  with 
the  happiness  sunshine  can  lay  atop  of 
the  greatest  sorrow, —  that  I  stayed  out  till 
nearly  ten  o'clock.  I  had  taken  some 
milk  and  bread  in  the  kitchen  before 
starting,  not  realising  that  breakfast  here 
is  a  solemn  meal.  Poor  old  souls !  they 
were  too  polite  to  begin  without  me,  and 
I  found  them  positively  drooping  with 
hunger. 

7 


8  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

All  the  rancour  that  I  had  harboured 
in  my  heart  this  many  a  year  against  my 
father's  stepmother  has  vanished  into 
thin  air.  One  glance  at  the  old  lady's 
delicate  weak  face,  at  her  diffident  eyes  <•* 
and  nervous  fingers,  dispelled  once  and 
forever  any  preconceived  idea  that  she 
might  have  helped  him  in  his  ardent  diffi- 
cult boyhood,  stood  between  him  and  his 
father  in  his  day  of  disgrace.  Had  she 
been  a  woman  of  mettle,  I  could  never 
have  forgiven  her  the  neutral  part  she 
played;  but  she  stands  there  cleared  by 
her  very  impotence. 

I  think  she  was  nervous  of  meeting  me, 
last  night;  she  said  something  confused 
about  my  poor  papa,  about  her  husband's 
severity,  adding  that  she  was  sorry  not  to 
have  known  my  mamma,  but  supposed  I 
must  be  like  her,  as  I  looked  quite  the 
foreigner  with  my  black  eyes.  Her  whole 
manner  towards  me  is  almost  painful  in 


Letter  II.  9 

its  humility;  this  morning  she  begged  me 
to  let  her  live  with  me,  and  die  in  this 
house,  saying  she  did  not  care  to  go  and 
live  with  her  son;  upon  which  I  of  course 
assured  her  that  she  must  still  consider 
everything  her  own,  and  the  scene  ended 
in  kisses  and  a  pocket-handkerchief. 

There  is  something  very  touching  about 
an  old  woman's  hand;  I  felt  myself  much 
more  moved  than  the  occasion  warranted 
when  she  held  me  with  her  trembling 
fingers,  moving  them  nervously  up  and 
down,  so  that  I  felt  the  small  weak  bones 
under  the  skin,  all  soft,  full-veined,  and 
wrinkled. 

Her  sister,  Caroline  Seymour,  is 
younger,  probably  not  more  than  sixty, 
and  very  active.  She  has  a  bright,  bird- 
like  face,  over  which  flits  from  time  to 
time  a  sad  little  gleam  of  lost  beauty. 
Her  fingers  are  always  busy,  and  the 
beads  in  her  cap  bob  up  and  down  inces- 


io  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

santly  as  she  bends  over  her  fancy-work. 
Poor  old  souls  —  poor  old  children!  I 
think  my  grandfather  must  have  led  them 
a  life;  there  is  a  peacefulness  upon  them 
that  suggests  deliverance.  He  has  been 
dead  just  five  weeks. 

But  the  old  house  will  see  quiet  days 
enough  now.  I  have  wandered  all  over 
it,  and  find  it  a  beautiful  place  in  itself, 
although  it  is  so  stuffed  with  wool-work, 
vile  china,  gildings,  wax  flowers,  and  in- 
describable mantel-piece  atrocities,  that 
there  is  not  a  simple  or  restful  corner 
anywhere.  Yet  I  find  myself  touched 
by  its  very  hideousness,  when  I  think 
that  it  probably  looked  even  so,  smelt 
even  so  stale  and  sweet,  in  the  days  of 
my  dear  father's  boyhood.  There  is  a 
picture  in  the  large  drawing-room  that 
gives  me  infinite  pleasure.  It  is  a  por- 
trait of  my  own  grandmother  with  papa 
in  a  white  frock  on  her  knees,  and  my 


Letter  II.  n 

poor  Aunt  Fanny  beside  her,  a  neat  little 
smiling  girl  in  pink,  with  very  long 
drawers.  There  is  something  in  the 
young  mother's  face  that,  at  first  sight, 
made  my  father's  smile  rise  clearly  to  my 
memory.  I  have  since  tried  to  recall  the 
vision,  but  in  vain. 

My  father's  half-brother,  George 
Fletcher,  a  widower  with  a  large  family, 
who  lives  four  miles  from  here,  came  to 
see  me  this  afternoon,  and  I  took  a  great 
dislike  to  him.  (Did  I  hear  you  say 
"  Of  course"  ?)  But  really,  dearest,  these 
introductions  are  very  painful;  it  is  most 
unpleasant  to  have  the  undesirable 
stranger  thrust  upon  one  in  the  guise  of 
friend  and  protector,  to  find  oneself 
standing  on  a  footing  of  inevitable  famil- 
iarity with  people  whose  hands  one  had 
rather  not  touch.  He  kissed  me,  Con- 
stantia,  but  he  certainly  will  not  do  so 
again.  Fortunately,  I  like  my  two  old 
ladies  ;  things  might  be  worse. 


12  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

To-morrow  my  lawyer  comes  from 
London  to  speak  to  me  on  business.  I 
shall  be  glad  when  the  interview  is  over, 
for  I  understand  nothing  at  all  about  busi- 
ness matters.  I  can  indeed  barely  grasp 
the  fact  that  I  have  come  into  possession 
of  land  and  money.  Heaven  only  knows 
what  I  am  to  do  with  it  all. 

Write  to  me;  write  soon.  You  seem 
further  away  from  me  to-day  than  you  did 
last  night;  and  yet  I  should  miss  you 
more  if  I  could  realise  my  own  existence. 
Can  you  make  your  way  through  these 
contradictions?  It  seems  to  me  this 
evening  that  I,  Emilia,  am  still  beside 
you,  that  some  one  else  sits  here  in  exile 
with  nothing  written  on  the  page  of  her 
future,  not  even  by  the  ringer  of  Hope. 
Good  night,  dearest. 

Yours  ever  and  always, 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  III. 

FLETCHER'S  HALL,  GRAYSMILL, 
July  26th. 

WHAT  do  you  think  stepped  in  with  my 
bath  this  morning?  A  long  narrow  letter 
sealed  with  a  heart.  I  kissed  the  blue 
stamp  and  spread  the  three  dear  sheets 
out  on  my  pillow.  Dime",  Constantia, 
how  I  love  you!  But  why  write  about 
me  ?  Why  waste  pen  and  ink  wondering 
how  I  am  ?  Tell  me  about  yourself,  tell 
me  all  you  do,  and  all  you  think;  tell  me 
how  many  different  hats  you  wore  on 
Wednesday,  and  how  you  misspent  your 
time  on  Thursday;  tell  me  of  all  the 
nonsense  that  is  poured  into  your  ears,  of 
all  the  rubbish  you  read;  tell  me  even  how 
many  times  your  mother  wakes  you  in  the 
13 


14          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

night  to  ask  if  you  are  sleeping  well.  I 
long  for  you  so  that  the  very  faults  of  your 
life  are  dear  to  me,  even  those  for  which 
I  most  reprove  you  when  you  are  near. 

Let  me  see :  it  is  past  midday  with  you; 
you  and  your  mother  are  out  walking.  I 
hear  you  both. 

"Constance,"  says  Mrs.  Rayner,  "put 
up  your  parasol ! " 

"Thanks,  mother,"  you  reply;  "I  like 
to  feel  the  sun." 

"You'll  freckle." 

"Through  this  thick  veil  and  all  the 
powder?" 

"You'll  freckle,  I  tell  you.  Put  up 
your  parasol." 

"  Oh,  mother,  do  let  me  be ! " 

Here  Mrs.  Rayner  wrenches  the  parasol 
out  of  your  hands  and  puts  it  up  with  a 
jerk;  you  take  it,  heaving  a  very  loud 
sigh,  upon  which  your  mother  seizes  it 
again  and  pops  it  down. 


Letter  HI.  15 

"  Very  well,  be  as  freckled  as  you  please ; 
what  does  it  matter  to  me,  after  all?  It's 
so  pretty  to  have  freckles,  isn't  it?  Please 
yourself!  Only  I  warn  you  that  you'll 
look  like  a  fig  before  the  year's  out! " 

Oh,  dear  me,  it  seems  I'm  in  good  spirits 
to-day !  Why  not,  with  your  letter  in  my 
pocket?  I  am  sitting  out  of  doors  in  the 
woods.  I  love  this  place,  apart  from  its 
own  beauty;  I  like  to  think  of  my  father 
out  here  in  the  open,  dreaming  his  young 
dreams.  Indoors  in  the  old  house  I  am 
often  miserable,  with  a  misery  beyond  my 
own,  remembering  how  he  suffered  once 
between  those  walls. 

No,  I  am  not  really  in  good  spirits, 
although  there  comes  now  and  again  a 
little  gust  of  light-heartedness.  You  know 
me.  For  the  rest,  I  hate  myself,  I  am  a 
worm.  The  empire  of  myself  is  lost;  I 
am  sitting  low  on  the  ground,  where  my 
troubles  laid  me,  letting  what  may  run 


1 6  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

over  me.  I  hate  myself  both  for  my 
abject  hopelessness  and  for  my  incapacity 
to  take  comfort  at  the  hands  of  those 
about  me.  But  oh!  the  deadliness  of 
their  life  is  past  description;  they  have 
neither  breadth  nor  health  in  their 
thoughts.  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  old 
women;  their  lives  are  at  an  end;  they 
sit  as  little  children  there,  simple  of  heart; 
what  they  were  I  ask  not,  nor  boots  it 
now,  for  their  day  is  done.  But  George 
Fletcher  and  his  family,  and  my  various 
more  distant  relatives,  and  my  neighbours 
far  and  near  —  oh,  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  live  here!  Believe  me;  you  will  soon 
see  me  back.  Good  people,  mind  you, 
one  and  all,  according  to  their  lights; 
God-fearing,  law-abiding,  nothing  ques- 
tioning, one  and  all.  I  shall  soon  expect 
to  see  the  earth  stand  still  and  roll  back- 
wards. Yes;  there  they  trot  upon  life's 
highway,  chained  together,  dragging  each 


Letter  III.  17 

other  along;  not  one  of  them  dares  stop 
to  pick  a  flower  lest  the  others  should 
tread  on  his  fingers  and  toes.  And  they 
are  so  swaddled  up  in  customs  and  con- 
ventions, baby-learned  forms  of  speech 
and  bearing,  that  there  is  nothing  to  be 
seen  of  the  real  man  and  woman;  indeed, 
I  cannot  say  that  I  have  yet  found  a 
mummy  worth  unrolling.  Yesterday  a 
kind  of  cousin  brought  her  children  to 
see  me.  There  was  a  small  girl  who  had 
already  learned,  poor  wretch,  to  play  her 
little  part,  to  quell  the  impulses  of  her 
young  heart,  to  tune  her  tongue  to  a  given 
pitch.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  chair, 
feigning  indifference  to  everything,  from 
Chinese  chessmen  to  gingerbread-nuts;  it 
was  a  positive  relief  to  me  when  her 
younger  brother,  who  has  not  yet  learned 
the  most  necessary  falsehoods,  yelled  lust- 
ily and  smashed  a  tea-cup.  I  should  have 
been  glad  to  do  both  myself. 


1 8          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  must  unpack  my  books.  A  Broad- 
wood  is  on  its  way  from  London;  in  a 
few  days  I  hope  to  have  made  unto  myself 
some  kind  of  oasis  in  this  desert.  I  have 
taken  possession  of  the  two  rooms  on 
the  topmost  floor  that  were  my  father's 
nurseries;  and  there,  with  my  things  about 
me,  I  mean  to  be  happy  against  all  odds. 

Good-bye  for  to-day.  Do  you  remem- 
ber this  morning  a  fortnight  ago?  It 
might  be  last  year  —  it  might  be  yester- 
day! How  strange  is  the  beat  of  Time's 
wings ! 

Your  EMILIA. 


LETTER  IV. 

GRAYSMILL,  August  2d. 

Now  that's  the  kind  of  letter  I  like  to 
have!  Only  my  heart  sickens  for  thee. 
At  each  word  I  hear  your  voice;  at  every 
pause,  the  little  ripples  that  run  away 
with  it  so  sweetly.  I  cannot  even  find  it 
in  me  to  scold  you  for  your  many  follies. 
Young  woman,  I  don't  approve  of  you, 
but  you  are  the  sweetest  creature  that  ever 
walked  this  earth.  Thanks  be  where 
thanks  are  due  that  I  am  a  woman;  you 
would  have  been  my  bane  had  I  been 
born  a  man ! 

But,  to  be  serious,  I  have  been  think- 
ing things  out;  you  must  leave  your 
mother,  Constance,  and  come  to  me. 
You  have  lived  this  kind  of  life  long 
19 


2O  The  Wings  of  Icants. 

enough;  and  —  believe  me,  my  dearest 
—  you  are  not  strong  enough  to  bear  it 
longer  unharmed. 

Shall  I  be  a  little  cruel  to  you?  Well, 
my  own,  I  think  that  if  you  looked  into 
your  heart,  searchingly  and  truly,  as  you 
always  declare  you  know  not  how,  you 
would  find  that  it  is  more  cowardice  than 
duty  binds  you  to  Mrs.  Rayner.  She  bore 
you,  you  say,  she  brought  you  up  —  Good 
Lord !  and  how !  If  you  were  not  a  pearl 
among  women,  what  would  you  be  by  this 
time  ?  No,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that 
it  is  cowardice,  not  duty,  prevents  you 
from  taking  this  step. 

I  shall  never  forget  what  you  said  to  me 
once,  when  first  I  knew  you;  it  was  in 
Florence,  and  we  were  leaning  out  of 
window  in  my  room.  I  remember  it  the 
better  because  it  was  during  this  conver- 
sation that  I  ventured  to  put  my  arm 
round  your  waist  for  the  first  time. 


Letter  IV.  21 

"Now  I  call  this  pleasant!"  you  said. 
"  Here  am  I  looking  out  of  window  with 
a  nice  girl's  arm  round  my  waist,  and 
right  away  from  my  mother.  She  doesn't 
even  know  where  I  am ! " 

I  loved  my  mother  so  much  that  this 
shocked  me  extremely,  and  I  told  you  so. 
You  flushed,  I  remember,  and  cried :  — 

"Oh,  but  you  don't  know  what  my  life 
is!  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  long 
with  all  your  might  to  get  away  from 
somebody,  somebody  who  has  hung  over 
you  ever  since  you  were  born,  so  that  she 
seemed  to  stand  between  you  and  the  very 
air  you  breathed."  And  then  you  told 
me  about  your  marriage;  how,  in  order  to 
be  free  from  her,  you  took  the  husband, 
rich  and  infamous,  into  whose  arms  she 
threw  you  in  your  innocence ;  how,  at  the 
end  of  a  few  months,  you  returned  home 
doubly  a  slave,  to  be  crushed,  year  in, 
year  out,  by  love  that  showed  itself  almost 


22  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

as  hate;  bound  now  in  such  a  way  that 
if  any  other  love  were  offered  you,  you 
could  not  take  it. 

And  how  old  are  you  now?  Twenty- 
four.  Still  her  puppet,  her  doll,  for  that 
is  what  you  are;  she  dresses  and  undresses 
you  from  morning  till  night,  then  struts 
up  and  down  the  streets  of  Europe,  show- 
ing her  pretty  plaything.  You  say  she 
has  no  thought  but  you,  loves  you  so  much 
that  it  would  break  her  heart  if  you  left 
her.  Look  here,  Constance:  you  knew 
my  mother;  you  know  then  what  it  means 
to  live  nobly  and  truly  in  the  light  of  a 
greater  goodness  than  the  world  yet  under- 
stands. God,  or  whoever  made  you,  made 
your  soul  very  white;  how  dare  you  let 
the  smuts  fall  upon  it?  How  dare  you 
tread  among  falsehoods,  you  that  have 
heard  of  Truth? 

Try,  my  dearest,  try  to  be  brave ;  surely 
it  is  the  duty  of  each  one  of  us  to  live  the 
noblest  life  he  can.  The  world  is  so 


Letter  IV.  23 

beautiful!  It  is  only  ourselves  and  our 
mistakes  that  lie  foul  upon  it.  When  the 
most  holy  of  human  ties,  defying  nature, 
becomes  the  bane  of  those  it  binds,  it  is 
better  to  break  it  than  to  let  one's  life 
cast  a  daily  blot,  as  it  were,  on  the  sanc- 
tity of  motherhood  and  the  love  of  the 
child. 

Come  to  me;  live  with  me  in  peace 
awhile !  We  will  think  and  read  together, 
master  ourselves,  and  find  some  path  to 
tread.  I,  too,  am  in  need  of  resolution. 
Whilst  my  dear  mother  lived,  she  held 
me  by  the  hand.  You  know  how,  when 
two  walk  together,  the  weaker  uncon- 
sciously leaves  it  to  the  stronger  to  lead 
the  way?  Well,  so  it  was  with  me;  and 
now  I  must  learn  to  find  my  path  alone. 
I  know  now  what  she  meant  when  she 
said  that  the  first  use  to  which  a  man 
must  put  his  courage  is  to  being  himself. 

All  good  be  with  you,  dear  heart. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  V. 

GRAYSMILL,  August  7th. 

DEAREST,  I  wrote  you  such  a  stern  letter 
the  other  day,  that  I  feel  I  must  write 
again  before  the  week  comes  round.  It 
was,  after  all,  a  silly  promise  we  made 
each  other  to  write  just  once  a  week, 
neither  more  nor  less.  This  time  I  write 
at  odds  with  myself.  It's  all  very  well  to 
talk  about  sincerity,  it  baffles  one  com- 
pletely at  times;  there  isn't  a  greater  liar 
under  the  sun  at  this  moment  than  Emilia 
Fletcher.  My  outward  life  is  all  out  of 
tune  with  my  inward  self.  Perhaps  if 
you  saw  me  with  my  old  ladies,  you  would 
say:  "Quite  right;  please  them  by  all 
means,  sit  with  them,  drive  with  them, 
make  small  talk,  listen  to  their  little  tales. 
24 


Letter  V.  2$ 

It  pleases  them,  and  it  doesn't  harm  you." 
But  I  answer :  Is  it  right?  Is  it  not  rank 
hypocrisy?  Is  affection  won  by  false  pre- 
tences worth  the  having?  I  tell  you,  I  am 
playing  a  part  all  day  long.  I  read  to 
them  out  of  books  that  I  either  despise  or 
abhor;  I  play  to  them  music  unworthy  of 
the  name;  I  nod  my  head  in  acquiescence 
when  my  very  soul  cries  no.  Nor  is  that 
all;  I  take  my  place  each  morning  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  open  the  Bible, 
and  in  pious  voice,  I,  Infidel,  read  forth 
the  prayers  that  are  to  strengthen  the 
household  through  the  day.  When,  at  a 
given  point,  all  the  maid-servants  rise, 
whirl  round  in  their  calico  gowns  and  turn 
their  demure  backs  to  me  as  they  kneel  in 
a  row,  I  know  not  whether  to  laugh  or 
cry.  O  Constance,  it  is  infamous  of  me ! 
And  why  do  I  do  it?  Out  of  considera- 
tion for  them?  out  of  kind-heartedness? 
Not  a  bit  of  it!  Vanity,  my  dear;  sheer 


26          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

vanity.  If  they  cared  for  me  less,  if  I 
did  not  feel  that  they  almost  worship  me, 
holding  out  their  old  hands  to  me  for  all 
the  pleasure  that  their  day  still  may  bring, 
would  I  do  it?  No;  for  then  I  should  not 
care,  as  I  feel  I  do  now,  to  keep  their 
good  opinion,  even  at  the  expense  of 
making  myself  appear  better,  according 
to  their  lights,  than  I  really  am.  I  am  a 
worm;  I  never  thought  I  could  sink  so 
low.  It  was  so  easy  to  live  in  tune  with 
Truth  beside  my  mother;  but  she  was 
Truth's  high-priestess;  she  never  swerved 
from  the  straight  path. 

I  went  to  church  last  Sunday;  there's  a 
confession !  Another  such  act  of  coward- 
ice, and  I  am  lost.  It  never  entered  my 
head,  of  course,  to  go  the  first  Sunday  I 
was  here;  and  as  it  so  happened  that  I 
had  a  headache  that  day,  no  comment  was 
made  upon  my  absence.  But  on  Saturday 
the  vicar  said  something  about  "  to-mor- 


Letter  V.  27 

row";  Uncle  George  invited  himself  to 
dinner  after  service;  and  when  Aunt 
Caroline  asked  me,  at  breakfast  on  Sun- 
day, what  hat  I  was  going  to  put  on,  I 
replied,  "The  small  one,"  and  followed 
her  like  a  lamb.  I  don't  know  what  to 
do  now.  This  afternoon,  the  good  little 
old  lady  asked  me  to  call  with  her  on  a 
friend  whose  father  died  last  week,  and 
I  went,  Heaven  knows  why.  I  was  well 
served  out.  There  they  sat  a  mortal  hour, 
blowing  their  noses  and  praising  their 
God,  until  I  could  have  shrieked.  When 
I  had  safely  seen  Aunt  Caroline  home,  I 
set  off  for  a  long  walk  in  the  gloaming; 
the  silent  earth  was  stretched  in  peace 
beneath  the  deepening  sky,  the  moon  rose 
among  great  clouds  that  floated  like 
dragons'  ghosts  upon  the  blue.  And  I 
cried  out  within  myself  for  very  pain  that 
I  who  had  perception  of  these  things 
should  live  so  lying  and  so  false  a  life. 


28          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

Perhaps  I  am  not  quite  myself  yet;  so 
much  sorrow  came  to  me  at  once  that 
all  my  strength  has  left  me.  But  it  is 
cowardly  to  make  excuses. 

I  hear  you :  "  There  you  go,  old  wise- 
bones!  Here's  a  storm  in  a  tea-cup! 
It's  much  better  to  behave  properly  out- 
side  anyway,  than  to  hurt  people's  feel- 
ings and  make  them  think  worse  of  you 
than  they  need,  by  showing  them  what  a 
wicked  infidel  you  are.  Besides,  what 
does  it  matter?" 

Little  one,  do  you  remember  how  we 
shocked  each  other  that  Christmas  morn- 
ing in  Florence,  when  we  made  a  round 
of  the  churches  together?  I  can  see  you 
still,  you  pretty  thing,  crossing  yourself 
at  the  door  of  Santa  Maria  Novella. 
With  all  the  strictness  of  my  nineteen 
years  I  was  simply  horrified. 

"Constance!  "  I  cried,  "what  on  earth 
are  you  doing?" 


Letter  V.  29 

"I  don't  like  to  be  left  in  the  cold," 
you  replied ;  "  if  there  are  any  blessings 
going,  I  may  as  well  have  my  share." 

"But,  dearest,"  said  I,  "you  don't  be- 
lieve in  it! " 

"Of  course  I  don't,  but  it  maybe  true, 
for  all  that;  how  do  we  know?  Do  let 
me  enjoy  myself,  you  dear  old  granny! 
The  stale  water  may  not  do  me  any  good, 
but  it  won't  do  me  any  harm  either,  now 
will  it?" 

Oh,  dear,  how  the  smell  of  the  church 
comes  back  with  the  remembered  words ! 
It  was  a  long  time  ago.  Dear  and  sweet 
one,  I  must  not  think  of  you  too  much,  I 
long  for  you  so. 

Yours  in  endless  love, 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  VI. 
FLETCHER'S  HALL,  August  I2th. 

You  must  do  as  you  think  best.  You 
know  that  I  long  for  you,  that  the  thought 
of  your  wasted  life  is  constant  pain  to 
me.  Think  again,  think  every  day,  and 
if  ever  you  can  make  up  your  mind  to 
leave  Mrs.  Rayner,  you  know  that  I  am 
here,  that  all  I  have  is  yours  also.  I  shall 
say  no  more. 

So  you  have  seen  him,  and  he  asked 
after  me.  Well.  What  was  he  doing  in 
Homburg,  I  wonder?  Not  that  I  care. 
I  really  believe,  Constance,  that  I  care 
no  longer.  And  yet  it  so  happens  that 
last  night  I  thought  of  him  a  good  deal. 
It  came  about  so.  Grandmamma  had 
gone  to  bed,  and  I  went  into  Aunt  Caro- 
3° 


Letter   VI.  31 

line's  room  to  light  her  candles.  There 
are  some  little  water-colours  round  the 
mirror  that  she  painted  as  a  girl.  I 
stopped  to  look  at  them,  and  the  poor 
soul  took  them  down  one  by  one  to  show 
me.  There  was  a  story  attached  to  each, 
and  her  eyes  brightened  with  remem- 
brance of  the  past.  Most  of  the  little 
pictures  were  different  views  of  the  same 
house.  Suddenly  she  gave  a  little  smile. 

"  Wait  a  minute;  I'll  show  you  another 
picture,  Milly  —  my  best  picture."  (They 
will  call  me  Milly;  there's  no  help  for  it.) 
"  I  have  never  shown  it  to  any  one  before, 
but  you  are  a  good  girl;  I  think  I  should 
like  to  show  it  to  you." 

She  cleared  a  space  upon  her  dressing- 
table,  lighted  a  third  candle,  a  fourth, 
making  a  little  illumination;  then  from 
her  wardrobe  she  brought  an  old  desk, 
and  unlocked  it  solemnly  with  a  key  that 
always  hangs  upon  her  watch-chain.  The 


32          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

desk  was  full  of  treasures,  —  letters, 
flowers,  ends  of  ribbon,  all  neatly  labelled. 
She  opened  a  little  case  and  placed  in  my 
hands  the  portrait  of  a  young  man. 

I  hardly  knew  how  to  take  it.  "  It  is 
beautiful,"  I  said;  "what  a  handsome 
face ! "  Then  the  veil  of  silence  and  old 
age  fell  from  her  heart;  she  told  me  the 
whole  tale.  Nothing  new,  of  course. 
She  had  loved,  and  —  strange  to  say !  — 
the  man  had  done  likewise;  they  were 
engaged,  but  because  his  family  was  not 
equal  to  hers  in  birth,  her  brother-in-law, 
my  grandfather,  would  not  hear  of  the 
match,  and  obliged  her  to  break  it  off. 
Yet  another  sin  to  add  to  his  score! 

"I  think,"  said  I,  "that  you  should 
have  married  him,  all  the  same." 

The  old  woman  blew  her  nose,  rose, 
and  kissed  me. 

"You  are  the  first  that  ever  told  me 
so,"  she  said;  "I  think  so,  too." 


Letter  VL  33 

It  was  past  midnight  when  I  left  her, 
and  I  must  confess  that  my  own  eyes  were 
not  dry. 

"Is  he  still  alive?"  I  asked,  as  I 
reached  the  door. 

The  old  woman  smiled. 

"I  don't  know,"  she  said,  "but  I  shall 
know  in  good  time ;  please  God  we  shall 
soon  meet  again  in  a  better  land." 

I  lay  awake  a  long  time  in  the  night, 
marvelling  at  her  constancy  and  her 
faith.  But  then  I  wept  to  think  how 
many  women,  even  as  she,  have  held  one 
only  flower  in  their  hands,  clung  to  it 
still  when  colour  and  scent  were  gone, 
refusing  to  pluck  another;  wept,  too,  to 
think  how  many  such  as  she  are  buoyed 
up  by  a  hope  I  cannot  share.  I  wonder 
what  it  feels  like,  this  implicit  faith  in 
an  after  life !  It  must  make  a  difference, 
even  in  love.  Perhaps  we  who  believe 
in  one  life  only  cling  with  the  greater 


34         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

passion  to  what  we  love,  seeing  that,  once 
lost,  we  have  no  hope  of  re-possession. 

Well,  it's  a  sad  world.  But  a  funny 
one,  too.  I  was  quite  shy  of  meeting 
Aunt  Caroline  again  this  morning,  lest  the 
remembrance  of  what  she  had  told  me 
over-night  should  make  her  feel  ill  at  ease ; 
lest,  in  fact,  she  had  repented  of  her  con- 
fidence. And  I  stood  quite  a  while  out- 
side the  breakfast-room  door,  like  a  fool. 
But  as  I  entered,  her  beaded  cap  was 
bobbing  over  an  uplifted  dish-cover. 

"  Oh,  good  morning,  Milly ! "  she  said. 
"No,  sister,  it's  not  Upton's  fault.  The 
bacon's  beautiful,  only  cook  can't  cut  a 
rasher." 

And  again  I  was  in  my  common  di- 
lemma; I  didn't  know  whether  to  laugh 
or  cry. 

Good-bye,  sweetest;  take  care  of  your- 
self. 


LETTER  VII. 

GRAYSMILL,  August  2oth. 

GOOD  evening,  Mrs.  Norris.  I  am  in 
a  very  good  temper,  — and  you?  (N.B. 
I  had  an  extra  letter  this  morning;  some- 
body spoils  me.) 

Now  what  shall  I  tell  you,  Inquisitive- 
ness?  Indeed,  I  tell  you  all  there  is  to 
tell.  You  complain  that  I  never  speak 
about  the  people  I  meet;  that's  true 
enough.  When  I  find  myself  in  their 
company,  I  make  the  best  of  it,  but  I 
never  think  about  them  between  whiles. 
As  for  Uncle  George,  why,  I  dislike  him 
thoroughly.  He  is  handsome  in  his  way, 
and  looks  remarkably  young, —  not  that 
that  is  exactly  a  crime!  One  of  my 
principal  objections  to  his  person  is  a 
35 


36  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

kind  of  bachelor  smartness  he  carries 
about  with  him.  It  is  quite  ridiculous 
to  see  him  with  his  daughters,  the  eldest 
of  whom  is  just  eighteen  and  engaged  to 
be  married.  There  is  nothing  of  the 
simplicity  of  the  country  gentleman  about 
him, — a  simplicity  that  in  many  cases 
covers  a  multitude  of  faults.  No,  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  bear  him, —  neither  his 
juvenility,  his  jewelry,  nor  his  whiskers 
—  certainly  never  the  scent  on  his  hand- 
kerchief !  Ouf !  I  hate  him  altogether. 
I  promise  you  that  when  I  find  a  human 
being  with  whom  I  can  exchange  an  idea, 
whose  thoughts  have  even  wandered  half 
a  mile  beyond  the  parish,  I  shall  apprize 
you  of  the  fact.  Meanwhile,  dearest, 
you  must  put  up  with  my  company,  as  I 
myself  am  learning  to  do.  It  seems  to 
me  almost  that  I  need  no  one  else !  I  sit 
here  in  my  room,  out  there  in  the  woods, 
and  I  am  content.  I  read  a  great  deal; 


Letter  VII.  37 

I  have  just  re-read  the  "Volsunga  Saga," 
and  have  begun  Tolstoi's  "Cossacks." 
I  am  trying,  too,  to  continue  my  mother's 
translation  of  "Prometheus,"  but  the 
difference  between  my  work  and  hers  is 
so  great  that  I  sometimes  lose  heart. 
However,  I  shall  try  to  finish  it.  Her 
beautiful  face  and  yours  look  down  at  me 
from  the  shelf  above  my  writing-table, 
amidst  a  wealth  of  flowers;  and,  as  I 
look  up,  I  can  see  the  sun  setting  be- 
hind the  beech-trees,  for  I  sit  beside 
the  window.  The  sky  is  full  of  hope,  the 
little  clouds  are  glowing  with  colour,  the 
trees  with  fulness  of  life;  a  blackbird  is 
singing  his  heart  out  in  the  willow  by  the 
pond.  I  must  needs  believe  that  life  is 
worth  living.  .  .  . 

I  have  watched  all  the  pink  fade  from 
the  sky;  the  mottled  clouds  are  grey  and 
sleepy-looking.  I  have  turned  away. 
You  are  smiling  very  sweetly  up  there; 


38  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

my  table  is  strewn  with  things  her  hand 
has  touched, —  I  am  not  quite  alone. 

Well,  good  night.  I  must  go  down  to 
my  dear  old  ladies  and  read  to  them 
a  while  before  they  go  to  bed. 

Your  EMILIA. 


LETTER  VIII. 

GRAYSMILL,  September  4th. 

You  are  a  sweet  to  write  so  often,  and  I 
am  a  wretched  niggard  that  deserves  not 
one  half  of  what  you  give.  I  began  to 
write  several  times  —  of  course  you  know 
that.  Take  care  of  yourself;  the  thought 
of  your  coughing  troubles  me;  each  time 
I  think  of  you  I  hear  you  cough,  and  it 
makes  me  miserable.  I  met  a  child  on 
the  Common  yesterday,  with  hair  your 
colour  that  fell  back  in  thick  curls  from 
a  forehead  almost  as  white  as  yours. 
Need  I  say  that  I  kissed  her?  Poor  mite, 
she  had  such  dirty  clothes !  She  told  me 
where  she  lives;  I  must  make  inquiries 
about  her  mother.  I  might  be  able  to 
help.  The  existence  of  poverty  is  just 
39 


4O          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

beginning  to  dawn  upon  me.  It  is  strange 
how  long  one  can  live  with  one's  eyes 
entirely  closed  to  certain  things.  In  Italy 
I  never  thought  about  it;  I  sometimes 
felt  sorry  for  a  beggar,  but  never  quite 
believed  in  poverty  as  an  actual  state;  it 
merely  seemed  a  rather  disreputable  but 
picturesque  profession.  Here  in  England 
I  have  come  face  to  face  with  destitution; 
with  hunger,  labour,  sweat,  and  barren 
joylessness.  My  first  thought  was  that 
money  might  set  all  this  straight;  I  made 
Uncle  George  laugh  by  seriously  suggest- 
ing that  I  should  give  of  my  superfluity  to 
every  cottage.  Most  people  here  visit 
the  poor;  I  went  with  Aunt  Caroline  at 
first  and  saw  it  all.  I  soon  gave  it  up. 
I  cannot  walk  boldly  into  free  human 
beings'  homes  and  poke  my  nose  into 
their  privacy;  I  cannot  speak  to  them 
of  the  Lord's  will  and  persuade  them  that 
all  is  for  the  best.  I  can  only  give  them 


Letter  VI I L  41 

money.  Little  Mrs.  Dobb,  the  rector's 
wife,  thanked  me  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
for  a  sum  I  placed  in  her  hands  yester- 
day. They  say  she  does  a  great  deal  of 
good,  and  if  my  money  and  her  religion 
can  work  together,  by  all  means  let  it 
be  so. 

Meanwhile  I  ask  myself  every  day: 
What  is  the  use  of  Emilia  Fletcher?  I 
really  cannot  see  why  I  ever  was  born; 
my  perceptions  are  keen,  but  keener  than 
my  capabilities.  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  do  anything  to  help  the  world;  yet  I 
see  so  much  that  might  be  done.  I  shall 
not  ever  be  able  to  lead  that  life  of  simple 
truth,  of  absolute  fidelity  to  high-set  aims, 
which  I  yet  believe  it  must  be  in  every 
man's  power  to  live.  Which  is  the  more 
to  be  despised  —  he  who  perceives  a 
higher  path  and  lacks  the  resolution  to 
adhere  to  it,  or  he  who  trots  along  the 
common  road  out  of  sheer  short-sighted- 


42          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

ness?     Clearly  the  first.     I  am  a  worm. 
(You  have  probably  heard  this  before.) 

Well,  I  am  not  a  very  gay  companion; 
I  shall  leave  you  for  to-day,  sweetest. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  IX. 

Sunday  evening. 

I  HAVE  made  a  fool  of  myself;  and 
yet  I  am  happier  to-night  than  I  have 
been  this  many  a  day,  for  I  have  at  least 
shown  myself  honest.  I  did  it  foolishly, 
thoughtlessly,  I  know,  and  yet, —  well,  I 
don't  regret  it. 

I  went  to  church  this  morning  for  the 
last  time.  I  went  with  Aunt  Caroline, 
as  usual,  but,  as  I  knelt  beside  her  on 
entering  the  pew,  I  was  seized  with  a 
great  horror  of  myself.  There  was  I, 
hypocrite,  with  silent  lips  and  silent 
heart,  feigning  to  share  in  the  simple 
fervour  around  me,  denying  my  own 
faith,  insulting  that  of  another.  How- 
ever, I  sat  and  knelt  and  stood  and  went 
43 


44          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

through  all  the  forms  along  with  the  rest. 
The  sunlight  streamed  in  at  the  windows, 
and  lay  coloured  on  the  dusty  floor,  on 
bowed  head  and  Sunday  bonnet;  through 
one  little  white  window,  just  opposite 
me,  I  could  see  a  sparrow  bobbing  up  and 
down  on  the  ivy.  Then  away  sailed  my 
spirit,  through  the  church  wall,  over  the 
meadows,  and  into  the  copse;  I  pushed 
my  way  through  the  underwood,  and 
picked  up  a  leaf  here  and  there,  listening 
to  the  gentle  voice  of  the  wood-pigeon. 
And  then  —  you  know  there  is  one 
thought  into  which  all  thoughts  resolve 
—  I  walked  with  you,  dearest,  on  the 
hilltops  by  Fiesole;  she,  too,  was  there, 
and  you  both  laughed  at  me  because  I 
tried  to  dig  up  a  wild  orchid  with  a  flint, 
and  got  my  hands  so  dirty. 

Then  we  had  that  long  talk  about  the 
possibility  of  an  after-life,  which  began 
with  the  bulb  of  the  orchid  —  do  you 
remember? 


Letter  IX.  45 

"Nothing  is  lost  in  Nature,"  said  my 
mother.  "There  is  no  such  thing  as 
annihilation;  death  is  surely  transubstan- 
tiation." 

"Perhaps  then,  after  all,"  said  I,  "the 
noblest  part  of  us,  the  self,  that  invisible 
core  which  we  call  soul,  is  just  a  drop,  as 
it  were,  in  a  great  soul-ocean,  whose 
waves  wrap  creation,  and  into  which  we 
shall  fall.  What's  the  matter,  Con- 
stantia?" 

"I  can't  listen  to  you  any  more,  you 
prosy  things;  you  make  me  melancholy. 
Go  and  be  waves  if  you  like,  you  two; 
I'm  going  to  have  white  wings  and  be  an 

angel ! " 

****** 

"  I  believe  in  God  Almighty,  Maker  of 
Heaven  and  Earth." 

These  words  roused  me  with  a  hard  and 
sudden  shock.  I  had  completely  forgot- 
ten where  I  was;  I  looked  about  me,  half 


46          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

dazed,  and  saw  every  one  standing  except 
myself.  Must  I,  too,  rise  and  say  the 
Creed?  I  did  not  hesitate,  because  I 
did  not  think.  I  simply  stood  up  and 
left  the  church. 

After  dinner  I  went  to  the  rectory;  I 
felt  that  my  former  hypocrisy  and  coward- 
ice must  be  atoned  for  without  delay. 
Besides,  as  Goethe's  mother  used  to  say, 
there  is  no  need  to  stare  at  the  devil,  it 
is  better  to  swallow  him  whole.  Well, 
I  went  to  Mr.  Dobb,  and  confessed  my- 
self. He  was  less  shocked  at  my  dis- 
belief than  I  had  expected,  but  my  pro- 
fession of  it  troubled  him  considerably. 
He  spoke  a  great  deal  about  example, 
about  the  leading  of  the  masses,  and 
altogether  seems  to  hold  avowed  lack  of 
faith,  a  greater  sin  than  feigned  belief. 

Of  course  he  had  plenty  to  say  on  the 
subject;  he  seems  to  be  an  honest  man, 
and  I  must  admit  that  much  of  what  I 


Letter  IX.  47 

heard  impressed  me.  I  envied  him  the 
ease  with  which  he  spoke,  the  ready- 
coined  language  he  was  free  to  use.  I 
could  find  no  words  in  which  to  prove 
that  I,  too,  had  a  religion.  I  wonder, 
shall  I  ever  be  able  to  tell  another  what 
it  is  that  I  feel,  as  by  means  of  a  sixth 
sense,  when  earth  and  heaven  are  fairest, 
when  poets  sing  their  best  and  music  is 
most  divine,  when  the  souls  of  men  and 
women  leap  to  their  eyes  and  their  hearts 
lie  bare;  then  something  within  me 
smiles  and  shivers,  and  I  say,  "This  — 
this  is  God !  " 

Oh,  it  is  all  very  well  to  talk  of  being 
sincere!  Again  and  yet  again  I  must 
say  it.  For  the  lips  cannot  speak  what  the 
spirit  feels.  And  then,  — why,  I  spoiled 
my  truthful  day  by  a  lie  at  the  end.  How 
could  I  go  to  those  two  old  dears  and  say, 
"  I  cannot  pray  with  you  or  go  to  church 
any  more,  I  am  an  infidel."  How  could 


48  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I?  I  said  instead,  " My  mother  brought 
me  up  in  a  different  faith;  I  tried  to  go 
to  your  church,  but  I  cannot,  and  I  think 
you  would  not  wish  me  to  act  against  my 
conscience  in  so  sacred  a  matter,  so  we 
will  go  our  ways." 

Oh,  what  a  struggling  world  it  is !  And 
how  weary  one  becomes  of  the  incessant 
strife  when  those  upon  whose  hearts  one 
might  lean  are  far  away,  unknown,  or 
dead!  Oh,  I  am  very  lonely.  What  is 
life  without  love?  It  is  not  to  be  borne. 
Do  you  remember  what  it  was  to  lie  in 
your  cot,  to  watch  the  firelight  on  the 
ceiling,  feeling  the  darkness  without; 
and,  as  you  lay  snug  in  your  little  world 
within  the  world,  to  see  your  mother  lean 
over  your  pillow,  a  great  Heaven-roof  of 
love,  —  to  be  lifted,  weak  and  small  and 
trustful,  in  her  arms,  to  feel  your  weary 
head  pressed  close  against  her  breast? 
O  Constance,  I  would  give  all  —  my  very 


Letter  IX.  49 

eyesight  —  to  feel  an  arm  about  me  in 
the  dark,  to  yield  up  Self,  to  rest.  We 
women  are  poor  wretches;  no  man  would 
ever  feel  so,  I  think. 

Good  night;  my  candle  has  burned  low 
in  the  socket,  the  paper  is  flaring  already, 
I  shall  have  to  undress  in  the  dark. 

Good  night,  dearest. 


LETTER  X. 

GRAYSMILL,  September  2Oth. 

BLESSINGS  upon  you,  my  sweet  dearest; 
your  birthday  is  the  day  of  days  to  me. 
How  could  I  live  without  you?  I  am 
purely  selfish  when  I  wish  you  perfect  joy 
and  a  long  golden  life;  it  is  almost  like 
praying  for  fine  weather !  All  the  strings 
of  my  heart  go  towards  you,  Constance 
Norris,  and  are  knotted  in  your  bosom. 
Be  happy,  be  well,  my  darling,  else  I 
suffer.  We  shall  not  be  apart  on  your 
next  birthday,  I  think.  I  have  evolved  a 
marvellous  scheme.  Your  mother  is  still 
young,  and  a  very  handsome  woman; 
why  don't  you  marry  her?  Really,  it's  a 
plan  worth  attempting;  couldn't  you  per- 
suade one  of  your  numerous  admirers  to 
transfer  his  affections  ?  Then,  Constantia 
5° 


Letter  X.  51 

mia,  we  two  could  live  together.  We 
should  mostly  live  abroad,  following  the 
sunshine;  but  for  a  part  of  the  year  we 
should  stay  here  in  England.  Don't 
wrinkle  up  your  dear  nose !  You  will  be 
every  bit  as  much  in  love  with  the  coun- 
try as  I  am,  when  once  you  know  it  well. 
I  wish  I  could  show  it  you  now;  the 
woods  are  changing  colour,  'tis  a  glowing 
world,  and  your  lungs  have  never  tasted 
such  air  as  blows  on  Graysmill  Heath. 
You  would  be  very  happy  in  the  woods  in 
summer;  you  could  lie  down  and  bring 
your  face  on  a  level  with  the  flowers,  and 
I  should  sit  by  and  love  you.  There 
would  be  little  sunbeams  piercing  the 
roof  of  leaves  and  twinkling  about  us, 
and  just  enough  breeze  to  clear  your  brow 
of  curls.  O  Constance !  Why  are  we  so 
far  apart?  Only  one  life,  and  then 
parted !  But  one  must  not  think  of  such 
things. 


52  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  send  you  a  little  ring  that  I  found  the 
other  day  in  Miltonhoe;  there  is  a  kiss 
on  the  red  stone,  don't  lose  it. 

Blessings  upon  you,  my  heart  of  gold. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XI. 

GRAYSMILL,  October  £th. 

THREE  several  times  have  I  begun  to 
write  to  you,  but  I  came  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  it  is  better  not  to  write  at  all 
than  to  give  vent  to  such  feelings  as  mine. 
Besides,  I  had  nothing,  positively  noth- 
ing, to  tell  you.  Furthermore,  you  did  not 
deserve  a  letter.  However,  as  it  is  all 
too  long  since  you  honoured  me  with  a 
communication,  Mrs.  Norris,  I  feel  I  must 
write  and  remind  you  of  my  existence. 
I  am  well,  thank  you,  but  the  world's  a 
dull  place. 

Grandmamma   and   Aunt   Caroline  — 

perhaps  myself,  who  knows?  —  are  in  a 

great  state  of  excitement  to-day  because 

a  niece  of  theirs  is  coming  here  on  a 

53 


54  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

visit.  I  heard  of  her  existence  for  the 
first  time  last  week,  and  immediately 
decided  to  invite  her  to  Fletcher's  Hall. 
For,  Constance,  let  me  whisper  it,  the  old 
ladies  —  bless  their  hearts! — are  killing 
me.  This  person,  Ida  Seymour  by  name, 
is  a  spinster  of  some  forty  winters,  a  kind 
of  roving,  charitable  star,  from  what  I 
gather,  who  spends  her  life  visiting  from 
place  to  place  with  a  trunkful  of  fancy 
work,  pious  books,  and  innocent  sources 
of  amusement, —  a  fairy  godmother  to  old 
ladies,  pauper  children,  and  bazaars.  My 
vanity  has  run  its  course,  and  I  shall 
gladly  yield  the  place  of  honour  to  this 
worthy  soul.  May  she  stay  long ! 

That  is  absolutely  all  the  news  I  have 
for  you,  and,  indeed,  it  is  more  than  you 
deserve ;  for  you  are  about  as  lazy  as  you 
are  sweet,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal. 
If  I  don't  get  a  letter  to-morrow,  I  shall 
be  on  the  brink  of  despair.  At  the 


Letter  XL  55 

approach  of  post  time,  I  am  nearly  ill 
with    anticipation,    and    afterwards    fall 
headlong  into  deepest  melancholy. 
Your  ill-used 
EMILIA. 


LETTER  XII. 

GRAYSMILL,  October  loth. 

SWEET,  your  letter  of  Thursday  com- 
forted me  wondrous  much;  but  I  have 
something  to  tell  you,  and  my  impatience 
will  not  even  let  me  dwell  on  the  joy  it 
was  to  read  words  of  yours  again.  Well; 
yesterday  was  a  dull  day,  the  sky  was  cov- 
ered all  the  morning,  and  at  dinner-time 
it  began  to  rain.  I  sat  in  my  room  in  the 
afternoon  and  read  "Richard  Feverel" 
until,  looking  up  from  my  book,  I  saw 
that  the  rain  had  ceased.  The  wind  had 
risen,  and,  in  the  west,  a  hole  had  been 
poked  through  the  grey  mantle,  showing 
the  gilded  edge  of  a  snowy  cloud  against 
a  patch  of  blue.  Out  I  ran,  across  the 
garden  and  the  little  park  that  touches 
56 


Letter  XII.  57 

the  heath,  then  through  my  dear  beech- 
wood  until  I  reached  a  certain  clearing 
where  the  ground  goes  sheer  down  at 
one's  feet  and  where  one  may  behold, 
over  the  tree-tops,  stretches  of  wood  and 
meadow  in  the  plain  below.  I  sprang  on 
to  a  knoll,  and  there  stood  breathless, 
watching  the  rout  of  the  tumbled  clouds. 
Something  started  beside  me, —  I  started 
also,  for  these  woods  are  always  very 
lonely,  —  and,  to  my  surprise,  I  saw  a 
young  man.  Imagine  a  very  tall  slight 
fellow,  carelessly  dressed,  at  one  and  the 
same  time  graceful  and  ungainly, —  I  have 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  he  is  physi- 
cally graceful,  but  that  a  certain  shyness 
and  nervousness  of  temperament  produce 
at  times  self-consciousness  and  awkward- 
ness of  bearing.  It  is  difficult  to  describe 
his  face;  I  don't  know  whether  he  is 
merely  interesting  or  actually  beautiful; 
here  again  there  is  some  discrepancy 


58  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

between  flesh  and  spirit,  for  the  features 
are  not  regular,  but  the  expression  exquis- 
ite. I  suppose  he  might  be  considered 
plain;  his  nose  is  large,  rather  thin,  and 
not  straight;  his  mouth  is  large  but 
finely  shaped;  I  think  he  smiles  a  little 
crookedly.  Anyway,  his  eyes  are  beauti- 
ful; they  are  set  far  apart,  and  are 
strangely  expressive.  For  the  rest,  he  is 
more  freckled  than  any  one  I  ever  saw, 
and  his  hair  —  which  is  of  no  particular 
colour  —  is  rather  long  and  thrown  off  the 
temples,  save  for  one  lock  that  continu- 
ally falls  forward.  You  will  think  I  am 
in  love  with  the  apparition,  to  judge  by 
the  way  in  which  I  dwell  on  his  descrip- 
tion; indeed,  I  am  almost  inclined  to 
think  so  myself ! 

Well!  I  stood  and  stared  at  him;  his 
hat  was  off,  an  open  book  was  in  his 
hand,  and  he  gazed  at  me  as  one  not  well 
awake,  that  has  been  roused  from  dreams; 


Letter  XII.  59 

with  something  in  his  looks,  too,  of  the 
startled  animal  that  would  run  away  and 
dare  not.  There  is  no  knowing  how  long 
we  might  have  stood  there  staring  at  each 
other,  but  for  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  that 
whisked  off  my  hat,  whereupon  the  young 
man  and  I  both  started  downhill  in  pur- 
suit. The  wind  was  playful,  and  led  us 
a  fine  dance;  we  were  obliged  to  laugh. 
When  at  last  he  caught  and  handed  back 
to  me  my  property,  we  were  thoroughly 
exhausted  and  sat  down  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill  on  the  mossy  tree-roots.  I  am  sure 
we  must  have  looked  very  silly,  for  we 
were  so  out  of  breath  that  we  could  not 
leave  off  laughing, —  my  young  man  has 
the  heartiest  laugh  I  ever  heard.  When 
we  had  somewhat  recovered,  I  said : 

"  I  wonder  why  one  always  laughs  when 
something  blows  away?  " 

"It  is,"  he  replied,  with  mock  gravity, 
"what  people  call  a  wise  dispensation  of 


60  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

Providence.  There  is  nothing  between 
laughter  and  tears." 

It  never  entered  my  head  to  get  up  and 
go  my  way;  his  shyness,  too,  seemed 
vanished;  we  were  quite  at  ease. 

"Have  you  ever  noticed,"  asked  he, 
"  how  many  different  kinds  of  moss  there 
are  in  these  woods?"  —  and  we  began  to 
count  the  varieties  as  we  sat.  At  last  I 
looked  up  and  saw  that  the  heavens  were 
blue. 

"I'm  going  uphill  again,"  said  I,  "to 
see  the  sunset.  How  quickly  the  sky  has 
cleared!  It  almost  seems  as  if  some 
invisible  broom  had  made  a  clean  sweep 
of  the  clouds."  To  which  the  young  man 
answered : 

"It  was  a  birch-broom.  I  see  the 
marks  of  it." 

We  climbed  the  hill  side  by  side;  it 
did  not  seem  at  all  strange  at  the  time. 
When  we  reached  the  summit,  the  sun  was 


Letter  XII.  6 1 

setting  in  fullest  glory,  and  we  were 
silent.  Suddenly  he  cried : 

"  Let  us  be  fire-worshippers !  There  is 
more  of  God  in  that  great  light  than  in 
all  the  gospels  of  mankind." 

"What  a  queer,  comforting  thing,"  said 
I,  "to  hear  from  a  stranger  in  a  wood." 

It  struck  me  afterwards  that  perhaps  I, 
too,  had  said  a  queer  thing;  but  we 
seemed  to  understand  each  other.  Pres- 
ently we  sat  down  again,  and  he  talked  to 
me  about  the  Parsees;  he  appears  to  know 
a  great  deal  about  them. 

We  narrowly  escaped  a  second  run 
downhill;  again  the  wind  seized  my  hat, 
but  he  nimbly  caught  it  on  the  wing. 

"Why  don't  you  do  as  I  do?"  he 
asked,  passing  his  fingers  through  his 
hair.  "It's  a  great  mistake  to  wear  a 
hat,  especially  if  one  has  a  turn  for 
trespassing." 

"Who  tells  you,"  laughed  I  then,  "that 


62  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  am  trespassing?  For  aught  you  know, 
this  may  be  my  own  ground." 

The  young  man  looked  at  me  curiously. 

"Are  you,  then,  Emilia  Fletcher?"  he 
cried. 

I  nodded  assent;  whereupon  he  held 
out  his  hand  and  jerked  his  head  forward; 
it  was  evidently  an  attempt  at  courtesy. 
I  took  the  hand  and  laughed  outright :  he 
looked  so  funny  with  his  bright  eyes 
twinkling  beneath  the  tangled  forelock. 

"I  have  heard  of  you,"  he  said,  "and  I 
am  glad  to  meet  you.  The  other  day  I 
asked  to  whom  the  land  belonged,  and 
was  told  that  you  were  half  Italian  and 
rather  eccentric.  You  seem  to  be  a 
human  being.  I  am  glad  to  have  met 
you.  My  name  is  Gabriel  Norton." 

Here  the  big  bell  rang  out  from  the 
house,  summoning  me  to  tea, —  it  had 
rung  once  already.  So  the  apparition 
and  I  parted  company. 


Letter  XII.  63 

I  wonder  if  he  has  caught  cold;  I  am 
sure  that  I  have;  I  have  been  sneezing  all 
the  evening. 

It  may  be  very  pleasant  and  romantic 
to  sit  on  the  moss  with  a  wood-sprite 
after  a  shower,  but  perhaps  it  is  not  very 
wise. 

I  must  go  and  say  good  night  down- 
stairs. I  left  Miss  Seymour  reading  senti- 
mental ballads  on  pauper  childhood  to 
the  old  ladies;  it  must  now  be  close  upon 
their  bed-time. 

Good  night,  beloved. 

Your  EMILIA. 

P.S.  I  forgot  to  say  that  he  has  one 
really  fine  point:  his  hands  are  quite 
beautiful.  I  keep  on  wondering  what 
you  would  think  of  him.  O  dio!  how 
good  it  was  to  laugh  again. 


LETTER  XIII. 

GRAYSMILL,  October  i8th. 

VERY  dear,  I  hope  this  letter  will  reach 
Vienna  before  you  do,  and  welcome  you 
there.  The  words  we  write  in  one  mood 
are  read  when  another  has  taken  its  place ; 
perhaps  you  are  as  merry  as  a  bird  in 
spring  by  this  time, —  perhaps  not.  My 
poor  little  dear.  I  know  myself  what  it 
is  to  sink  into  a  bottomless  pit  of  sense- 
less misery,  but  I  must  tell  you  that  it 
nearly  always  happens  when  I  am  idle. 

A  woman  that  is  debarred  from  woman's 
best  profession  —  wifehood  and  mother- 
hood—  must  find  some  other  work  to  do; 
idleness,  uselessness  —  above  all,  idleness 
—  are  the  hotbed  of  all  manner  of  follies. 
The  stupidest  man  in  existence,  working 
64 


Letter  XII L  65 

day  by  day  at  the  worldliest  work,  has  the 
better  of  us  in  this,  that  he  is  weighted, 
so  to  speak,  and  cannot  flutter  to  and  fro 
with  every  breeze  that  blows.  You  say 
that  you  cannot  work,  that  you  have  heard 
all  this  at  least  a  thousand  times;  well, 
never  mind,  hear  it  once  more! 

Take  German  lessons,  your  German  is 
very  bad;  go  on  with  your  singing,  your 
sweet  voice  is  very  ignorant;  read,  make 
some  study,  however  unprofitable,  of  the 
French  Revolution,  the  Renaissance,  the 
Conquest  of  Peru,  anything,  anything  you 
like;  or  buy  a  sewing-machine  at  least, 
and  make  flannel  petticoats  for  the  poor; 
anything,  Constantia,  only  don't  for 
Heaven's  sake  sit  there  with  your  hands 
in  your  lap,  listening  to  the  gabble  of 
fools,  while  Mrs.  Rayner  touches  up  a 
curl  here  and  a  frill  there,  from  morning 
till  night,  for  ever  and  ever. 

But  now  to  other  things,  for  indeed  I 


66  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

am  not  in  the  fault-finding  mood  you 
might  suppose.  Only,  as  you  know  well, 
I  can  always  worry  about  you,  at  any 
time. 

Well,  I  have  seen  my  wood-sprite  again, 
this  very  morning.  I  could  not  sleep 
after  six,  although  I  twice  covered  up  my 
head  with  the  bed-clothes  and  made  be- 
lieve I  was  not  awake;  so  I  got  up,  and 
the  young  sun  was  so  beautiful,  driving 
the  mists  out  of  the  valley,  that  I  went 
out. 

Between  the  flower  garden  and  the 
park,  there  lies  a  shrubbery;  green  paths 
wind  in  and  out  between  high  walls  of 
box  and  laurel,  leading  one  at  length  to  a 
little  blue  door  in  an  old  wall.  Well,  I 
was  stepping  along  between  the  ever- 
greens as  fast  as  the  moss  on  the  pebbles 
would  let  me,  swinging  my  hat  round  as  I 
went,  and  singing  loudly,  when  I  thought 
I  heard  footsteps  round  the  bend  of  the 


Letter  XIII.  67 

path.  I  turned  the  corner  —  nobody; 
only  a  little  scrambling  sound,  and  the 
treacherous  flutter  of  a  branch  in  the 
laurel  hedge.  Of  course  I  immediately 
thought  of  poachers,  and  in  my  imagina- 
tion already  saw  Emilia  Fletcher  stretched 
a  lifeless  corpse  upon  the  ground.  I 
took  three  backward  steps,  then  paused. 
Silence  and  stillness  reigned. 

Pooh !  thought  I,  it's  nothing,  and  with 
a  bold,  swift  step  I  walked  past  the  fear- 
ful spot.  No  sooner  had  I  passed  than 
there  came  another  crackle;  I  turned  and 
beheld  a  luminous  eye  between  the 
branches.  Whether  I  turned  pale  with 
fright  or  not,  I  cannot  tell;  but  a  hand 
came  forth,  a  foot,  then,  with  consider- 
able difficulty,  an  entire  body;  and  on  the 
path  before  me  stood  my  dishevelled 
friend,  covered  with  green  dust  and 
blushes. 

"I  have  no  excuse  to  offer,"  said  he. 


68  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  laughed;  there  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

"You  did  startle  me,"  said  I,  "but  I 
forgive  you." 

I  did  not  ask  him  what  he  was  doing  in 
my  shrubbery,  nor  did  he  offer  the  least 
explanation. 

"Are  you  going  for  a  walk?  "  said  he, 
simply,  "and,  if  so,  may  I  go  with  you?" 

I  was  glad  enough,  and  we  had  taken 
a  few  steps  forward  when  he  suddenly 
clapped  his  hands  to  his  pockets. 

"I  shall  have  to  get  into  the  bush 
again,"  he  cried,  with  rueful  face;  "I 
must  have  dropped  'Peer  Gynt.'" 

And  in  he  scrambled,  returning  trium- 
phant with  an  exceedingly  shabby  book. 

We  walked  a  full  hour  and  a  half, 
through  the  park,  through  the  woods,  and 
through  the  park  again,  for  he  insisted 
on  bringing  me  back  to  the  little  blue 
door.  We  talked  mostly  about  "Peer 
Gynt,"  which,  by  the  way,  he  is  reading 


Letter  XIII.  69 

in  the  original.  He  seems  to  read  every 
possible  language,  although  he  declares 
he  speaks  nothing  but  English.  We  did 
not  talk  at  all  about  ourselves,  so  I  know 
nothing  further  about  him,  save  that  he 
lives  in  a  cottage  on  the  heath  towards 
Miltonhoe,  with  his  father  and  his  aunt. 

When  we  parted  company,  he  asked 
me  if  I  would  mind  going  to  see  his  aunt. 

"I  believe,"  said  he,  "that  she  ought 
to  call  first  on  you, —  at  least,  she  says 
so,  —  but  that  she '  11  never  do.  If  I  landed 
her  at  your  very  door,  she'd  never  find 
courage  to  ring  the  bell." 

"Very  well,"  said  I;  "I'll  come  to  her 
instead." 

And  the  sprite  vanished. 

I  think  I  shall  go  to-morrow,  or  per- 
haps next  day. 

Good-bye,  sweet, 

Your  EMILIA. 


LETTER  XIV. 

GRAYSMILL,  October  23d. 

You  are  a  dear  to  take  such  becoming 
interest  in  my  friend.  I  have  a  great 
deal  more  to  tell  you  about  the  lunatic, 
as  you  call  him,  who,  by  the  way,  is  a 
great  deal  saner  than  either  you  or  I. 

Well,  I  went  last  Thursday.  It  took 
me  some  time  to  find  the  cottage.  After 
much  rambling  I  came  upon  it  in  the 
most  secluded  part  of  the  Common,  in  a 
slight  hollow.  It  is  a  sort  of  double  cot- 
tage, partly  thatched,  standing  in  a  good- 
sized  garden.  I  marched  through  a  rick- 
ety gate,  and  made  for  the  house  door. 
The  garden  is  one  wild  medley  of  vege- 
tables, fruit-trees,  and  flowers,  luxuriant 
still,  in  spite  of  the  late  season.  I  was 
70 


Letter  XIV.  71 

just  bending  over  a  chrysanthemum  when 
I  heard  a  startling  "  Hulloa !  "  and  found 
myself  accosted  by  the  gardener,  who 
stood,  spade  in  hand,  at  the  opposite  end 
of  the  gravel  walk.  He  was  in  his  shirt- 
sleeves; his  corduroy  trousers  were  more 
picturesque  than  respectable;  an  enor- 
mous straw  hat,  well  tanned  and  chipped 
by  wear,  was  stuck  on  the  back  of  his 
head. 

"Hulloa!"  he  cried  again. 

I  approached  and  asked,  as  soon  as  I 
could  do  so  without  shouting,  whether 
Miss  Norton  were  at  home. 

"She  is  at  home,"  replied  the  man, 
"and  who  may  you  be? " 

"Perhaps  you  will  kindly  tell  her,"  said 
I,  making  up  by  my  civility  for  his  lack 
of  it,  "  that  Emilia  Fletcher  has  come  to 
see  her." 

Down  went  the  spade,  off  came  the 
disreputable  hat. 


72  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

"God  bless  my  soul!"  he  cried,  rub- 
bing the  earth  off  his  fingers,  "so  it's 
you,  is  it?" 

He  seemed  doubtful  whether  his  hand 
were  fit  to  offer  me  or  not,  so  I  relieved 
him  of  his  anxiety  by  shaking  it  warmly. 

"Come  on  indoors,"  said  he;  "let's 
surprise  them;  Gabriel  will  be  delighted," 
arid  he  set  off  at  a  trot,  I  after  him.  He 
was  not  a  grand  runner.  I  conjectured 
at  once  that  his  health  is  not  good,  and 
that  he  probably  looks  ten  years  older 
than  he  really  is.  His  hair  is  almost 
white,  his  face  deeply  wrinkled. 

When  we  reached  the  cottage  door,  he 
pushed  me  gently  in,  and  I  found  myself 
in  what  appeared  to  be  a  lumber-room. 
There  was  a  table  in  the  centre  covered 
with  bundles,  books,  and  papers,  on  the 
summit  of  which,  precariously  poised  on 
the  lid  of  a  biscuit-tin,  stood  a  jug  and 
some  glasses;  piles  of  books  lay  on  the 


Letter  XIV.  73 

floor;  in  one  corner  stood  a  stack  of 
brooms,  rakes,  guns,  fishing-rods,  sticks, 
and  umbrellas;  and  a  marvellous  medley 
of  coats  and  hats,  baskets,  cords,  etc., 
loaded  a  groaning  row  of  pegs. 

"Wait  here,"  said  the  old  man,  tilt- 
ing the  only  chair  in  such  a  way  that  a 
Bible,  a  match-box,  and  a  cocoa-tin  filled 
with  nails  were  safely  deposited  on  the 
floor.  He  then  popped  his  head  in  at 
three  several  doors  that  opened  on  to  the 
apartment  (it  was  intended,  I  afterwards 
discovered,  for  the  hall),  and  finally  dis- 
appeared behind  one  of  them  which  led 
straight  on  to  a  flight  of  stairs.  Suddenly 
I  heard  a  scuffling,  a  sound  as  of  some  one 
coming  down  head  foremost,  and  my 
friend  appeared,  book  and  forelock 
and  all. 

"This  is  nice  of  you!  "  he  cried;  then 
his  father  stumped  downstairs  again,  fol- 
lowed by  a  tall,  sweet-faced  woman. 


74  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

"There,  Jane,"  said  he,  "there  she  is." 

I  went  up  to  her;  she  was,  indeed, 
very  shy.  "  Dear,  dear, "  was  all  she  said; 
"deary  me,  think  of  this,  it's  very  kind 
of  you,  I'm  sure,"  squeezing  my  hand 
the  while  as  if  it  had  been  a  sponge. 

She  led  me  off  through  the  door  to  the 
right,  into  a  comparatively  presentable 
parlour;  but  her  brother  took  my  other 
hand  and  pulled  me  in  the  opposite  direc- 
tion. 

"No,  no,"  he  said;  "no,  no,  we'll  go 
into  the  kitchen  and  have  tea." 

"Yes,  come,"  said  Gabriel;  "I'm 
hungry,  aren't  you?  Let's  go  and  find 
something  to  eat." 

So  we  recrossed  the  hall  and  passed 
through  a  good-sized  room  which  looked 
like  a  second-hand  bookshop.  Books 
overflowed  the  shelves,  and  lay  in  piles  in 
every  available  corner,  —  the  floor,  the 
table,  the  old  upright  piano,  the  very 


Letter  XIV.  75 

chairs,  were  covered  with  dusty  volumes. 
Out  of  this  room  led  the  kitchen,  which 
at  least  looked  clean.  A  rosy  little  maid 
was  leaving  after  the  day's  work  as  we 
entered. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Gabriel's  father  to 
me;  "sit  down,  my  dear;  you  shall  have 
some  tea  in  a  minute."  And  he  began 
taking  plates  down  from  the  dresser. 
Miss  Norton,  meanwhile,  had  disap- 
peared, and  presently  returned  with  a 
loaf,  dragging  Gabriel  after  her. 

"I  can't  keep  that  boy  out  of  the 
larder,"  she  said  plaintively. 

Gabriel  laughed  and  fetched  the  tea- 
pot, also  a  jug  and  two  paper  bags.  I 
thought  I  had  better  help,  too.  I  discov- 
ered some  knives  in  the  drawer  of  the 
table,  and  set  them  out. 

"Tea  or  cocoa?"  asked  Richard  Nor- 
ton, pointing  his  finger  at  tea-pot  and  jug 
in  turn.  I  chose  cocoa,  I  can't  think  why. 


j6  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

"That's  lucky,"  sighed  Gabriel; 
"there's  no  tea  in  the  bag." 

He  made  the  cocoa,  Jane  Norton  cut 
the  bread;  at  last  we  sat  down.  I  don't 
think  I  ever  enjoyed  a  meal  so  much  in 
my  life.  They  ate  voraciously,  and  we 
talked  meanwhile  in  the  silliest  fashion, 
about  nothing  at  all,  laughing  until  the 
tears  rolled  down  our  cheeks. 

My  friend  is  very  funny,  but  his  fun  is 
of  the  kind  that  cannot  bear  repeating; 
taken  away  from  himself,  separated  from 
his  personality,  it  would  sound  merely 
foolish.  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  sat 
next  Miss  Norton  during  tea.  When  we 
had  done,  Gabriel  stood  up,  chair  and 
all,  and  came  beside  me. 

"What  do  you  think  of  us?  "  he  asked. 
"Aren't  we  rather  nice?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  I  replied;  "and  the 
funny  part  of  it  is  that  I  feel  as  though 
I'd  known  you  all  my  life." 


Letter  XIV.  77 

"That's  just  how  I  feel  with  you,"  said 
Gabriel,  and  Richard  Norton  added, — 

"I  like  you;  you're  a  nice  girl;  you 
don't  turn  up  your  nose  at  us  because  we 
live  in  our  own  way.  You're  a  nice 
girl." 

"I  like  your  way  of  living,"  said  I, 
then.  "From  what  I  can  see,  it  seems 
to  me  you  are  about  as  free  as  any  one  can 
be  in  this  world,  and  that  is  the  best  of 
all  things,  — freedom." 

"  You've  hit  it !  "  cried  Richard  Norton, 
bringing  his  flat  hand  down  on  the  table. 
"We  are  free!" 

"Now  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Gabriel. 
"This  time  last  year  we  had  horrible 
lodgings  in  Bloomsbury.  Father  went 
every  day  to  drudgery  in  a  dirty  office, 
helping  another  man  to  rob  his  fellow- 
creatures;  aunt  there  gave  lessons, —  she 
can't  teach  a  bit;  she  was  only  putting 
nonsense  into  the  heads  of  future  men  and 


78  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

women,  and,  such  as  it  was,  putting  it 
there  wrong.  I  was  doing  likewise,  and 
I  teach  worse  than  she  does.  Of  an 
evening  I  wrote  drivel  for  the  papers. 
We  were,  every  one  of  us,  useless  and 
miserable.  At  last  one  day  I  said  —  " 

"You  did!"  interrupted  his  father. 
"You  may  live  to  be  a  hundred,  you'll 
never  say  anything  so  wise  again." 

"I  said:  'Look  here!  How  many 
lives  have  we?'  'One,'  replied  father. 
'What  are  we  alive  for?'  'I  don't  know,' 
replied  father.  'Neither  do  I;  only  I 
know  that  life's  not  worth  living  as  we 
live  it.  Let's  go  into  the  country.'  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Gabriel,"  inter- 
rupted his  father  again;  "  it  was  not  quite 
so,  it  was  better  than  that.  The  boy 
lectured  me,  Miss  Fletcher, —  pitched 
into  me,  and  I  deserved  it.  He  told  me 
I  was  fifty-five  and  a  fool  for  my  years. 
So  I  was.  There  was  I,  grinding  away, 


Letter  XIV.  79 

—  what  for?  We  never  saw  each  other, 
we  never  saw  the  fields,  we  were  selling 
all  the  joys  of  life  for  three  farthings. 
So  we  decided  to  drudge  no  more.  Ga- 
briel would  have  continued,  but  I  could 
not  allow  that;  I  wanted  him  here.  We 
found  we  should  have  just  enough  money 
to  rent  a  cottage,  buy  body-covering  and 
plain  food.  So  here  we  are.  And  we 
are  happy.  As  Gabriel  said,  What  is 
the  use  of  toiling  for  more,  when  the 
unprofitable  work  that  brings  us  a  few 
extra  shillings  takes  away  our  capacities 
for  enjoying  life?  Here  we  are,  happy 
all  day,  eh,  Gabriel?  He  writes  his 
poetry  and  devours  his  books,  I  devour 
mine,  Jane  devours  hers;  we  are  learning 
now  all  the  beauties  of  Nature,  and  man's 
best  thoughts.  We  are  very  happy." 

A  vision  of  my  present  life  flitted 
across  me,  like  a  cloud  on  a  sunlit  field. 

"Oh!"    said    I,    "how  I   envy  you! 


8o  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

Nothing  useless,  not  a  clog  about  you,  no 
stupid  formalities,  stifling  luxuries,  no 
daily  lies  and  false  duties." 

"  Have  you  all  these  ?  "  asked  Gabriel. 

"Not  so  badly  as  some  people,  but 
badly  enough.  I  have  money,  and  no 
end  of  respectable  relations." 

He  laughed,  and  made  a  wry  face. 

When  I  found  that  it  was  time  to  wend 
my  way  home,  Gabriel  offered  to  walk 
with  me.  I  was  very  glad.  On  the  way 
out,  he  stopped  in  the  hall  and  knocked 
half  the  things  off  the  pegs. 

"Beloved  aunt!"  he  cried,  "there 
used  to  be  a  hat  somewhere!" 

I  assured  him  that  he  need  not  discom- 
fort himself  for  my  sake,  and  he  bounded 
forth  bareheaded,  with  a  yell  of  exultation. 
On  the  road  we  had  a  long  and  somewhat 
warm  discussion  on  suicide,  which  was 
started  by  an  essay  of  Montaigne's  he 
happened  to  be  reading.  Every  now  and 


Letter  XIV.  81 

again  he  pulled  the  book  from  his  pocket 
and  read  me  extracts,  until  it  was  too 
dark  to  see ;  even  then  he  once  struck  a 
match  to  find  a  passage. 

For  the  sake  of  argument  we  occasion- 
ally took  opposite  sides,  but,  in  fact,  we 
were  both  agreed  upon  the  principal 
point;  namely,  that  although  man  enters 
the  world  against  his  will,  he  may  surely 
choose  the  time  and  the  manner  of  his 
exit.  That  this  is  every  one's  right  we 
both  believe,  yet  believe,  also,  that  the 
right  should  be  sparingly  used.  For. 
although  suicide  might  almost  be  consid- 
ered an  act  of  duty  on  the  part  of  those 
suffering  from  incurable  disease,  mental  or 
physical,  most  of  us,  however  useless  and 
superfluous  we  may  at  times  believe  our- 
selves to  be,  have,  willy-nilly,  the  fate  of 
some  fellow-creature  bound  up  with  our 
own;  and  it  is  surely  an  act  of  unpar- 
donable cowardice  to  make  our  escape 


82  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

from  a  world  of  difficulties,  leaving  others 
to  bear  the  burden  of  our  faults. 

But,  really,  I  must  put  an  end  to  this 
letter;  I  never  wrote  such  a  long  one  in 
my  life,  not  even  I,  not  even  to  you.  My 
friend  left  me  as  we  approached  Grays- 
mill,  saying  that  he  dared  not  set  foot 
on  the  confines  of  respectability. 

That  was  Thursday,  and  I  have  not  seen 
him  since. 

Good-bye,  my  dearest;  I  kiss  your  sweet 
eyes. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XV. 

GRAYSMIIX,  October  3ist. 

No,  of  course  I  have  not  said  a  word 
about  it  at  the  house;  what  an  idea! 
Why  should  I?  Good  gracious  me, 
they'd  think  me  mad.  Besides,  I  am 
my  own  mistress,  and  am  not  answerable 
to  anybody  for  my  actions.  Not  for  the 
world  would  I  speak  of  the  Nortons  to 
any  of  these  people  here. 

Ida  Seymour  is  a  fixture,  for  the  pres- 
ent, at  least.  Her  good  offices  leave  me  a 
great  deal  more  liberty  than  I  enjoyed 
during  the  first  few  months.  Apart  from 
meal-times  I  give  some  two  hours  a  day 
to  my  old  ladies,  and  work  hard  the  rest 
of  the  time.  I  have  finished  "Prome- 
theus," and  laid  it  aside  to  await  revision; 
83 


84  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  am  now  sorting  my  mother's  papers, 
with  a  view  to  some  day  publishing  a 
selection  of  them.  Perhaps.  But  there 
is  such  a  sacredness  to  me  about  all  she 
has  left  behind,  that  I  cannot  yet  bear  the 
thought  of  sending  anything  that  remains 
of  her  out  into  the  cold  world,  to  be  mis- 
judged and  misprized. 

How  can  you  ask  me  what  colour  his 
eyes  are  ?  When  did  you  know  me  care 
for  any  one  —  except  mamma  —  whose 
eyes  were  not  blue?  His  are  very  dark, 
and  very  beautiful.  I  cannot  think,  by 
the  way,  why  I  ever  told  you  that  he  might 
perhaps  be  considered  plain.  I  looked 
at  him  hard  yesterday,  and  cannot  think 
what  possessed  me  to  say  such  a  thing; 
for  he  is  certainly  as  far  from  plain  as  any 
man  I  ever  set  eyes  on.  It's  really  very 
strange  that  I  did  not  see  it  at  once. 

You  see,  we  have  met  again.  Five 
days  passed,  and  I  must  admit  that  I  found 


Letter  XV.  85 

them  dull.  To  be  quite  sincere,  I  will 
also  admit  that  I  once  walked  towards 
Miltonhoe,  and  was  disappointed  not  to 
meet  him.  At  last,  on  Wednesday  morn- 
ing, I  received  a  note  from  him.  He 
writes  a  good  hand,  although  not  a  firm 
one  —  he  makes  two  or  three  of  his  let- 
ters in  two  or  three  different  ways.  I 
would  send  you  the  letter,  only  mine  is 
sure  to  be  heavy  enough  without  enclos- 
ures. It  ran  thus :  — 

Dear  Miss  Fletcher,  —  I  am  afraid  of  your 
butler.  What  is  to  be  done?  I  tried  this  after- 
noon to  pay  you  a  call,  but  my  courage  vanished 
at  the  lodge.  I  think  we  did  not  quite  exhaust 
our  subject  last  Thursday.  I  have  thought  a  great 
deal  more  about  it,  and  I  dare  say  you  have  done 
likewise.  Can  I  see  you  by  any  means  without 
facing  the  butler  ?  I  shall  sit  in  the  laurel  hedge 
every  morning,  on  the  chance  of  your  taking 
another  walk  before  breakfast. 

Your  humble  servant, 

GABRIEL  NORTON. 


86  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  did  not  go  next  morning,  although  I 
wished  to  do  so.  I  hardly  know  why  I 
waited  until  Friday;  it  was  not  only  un- 
reasonable on  my  part,  but  also  not  quite 
straightforward.  How  is  it  that,  even 
when  circumstances  might  enable  us  to 
act  according  to  our  impulses,  some  un- 
expected inconsistency  in  our  own  selves 
throws  a  bar  across  the  path?  I  begin 
to  think  that  it  must  be  an  idle  dream,  — 
sincerity,  self-honesty.  My  thoughts  are 
fixed  upon  it  constantly,  I  strive  towards 
it  with  heart  and  soul;  yet  daily,  under 
the  very  eyes  of  my  own  scrutiny,  I  lie 
either  in  word  or  in  action. 

Well,  on  Friday  I  went,  and  we  had  a 
happy  time  together.  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  grateful  I  am  to  have  met  this  crea- 
ture, to  come  once  again  into  contact  with 
a  being  whose  footsteps  fall  near  my  own. 
We  are  are  very  different,  yet  I  feel  that 
our  faces  are  turned  towards  the  same 


Letter  XV.  87 

light.     I  told  him  a  great  deal  about  my 
mother;  she  would  have  loved  him. 

There  goes  the  second  bell,  and  I  have 
not  even  washed  my  hands.  Farewell  for 
to-day. 

Yours  in  all  truth, 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XVI. 

GRAYSMILL,  November  8th. 

MY  little  dear  Constance,  first  and  fore- 
most I  am  freezing,  and  have  got  a  red 
nose,  I'm  certain.  Is  it  cold  with  you 
also?  The  week  has  been  a  full  one. 
Uncle  George's  eldest  daughter  was  mar- 
ried the  day  before  yesterday,  and  there 
were  great  festivities  in  the  family.  The 
marriage  should  have  taken  place  last 
June,  but  was  postponed  owing  to  the 
grandfather's  death. 

What  extraordinary  creatures  we  are! 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  many  Emilias  were 
at  that  wedding.  Something  in  me  was 
touched  by  the  sight  of  a  large  family 
assembled  from  far  and  wide,  excited 
and  united  for  the  moment  by  a  common 
88 


Letter  XVI.  89 

sentiment;  something  in  me  was  lonely 
beyond  description,  for  I  was  not  of 
them;  and  whereas  I  smiled  and  made 
merry  in  a  white  gown  and  felt  the  tears 
come  to  my  eyes  when  the  little  bride 
went  forth  under  a  shower  of  rice,  I  was 
nevertheless  looking  on  at  the  smiles  and 
tears  of  the  others  with  doubt  and  cyni- 
cism rampant  in  my  heart. 

Poor  little  bride!  I  wondered  how 
much  she  thought  she  loved  him,  how 
much  he  cared  for  her;  and  where  her 
smiles  and  her  golden  dreams  would  be 
this  time  next  year,  poor  little  white 
thing,  veiled  in  ignorance. 

It  is  not  altogether  a  bad  world,  for  all 
that.  I  certainly  have  not  found  it  so; 
but  then  it  has  been  my  good  fortune  to 
draw  near  the  hearts  and  brains  of  some 
very  dear  mortals.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
fond  I  have  grown  of  this  creature,  — 
Gabriel  Norton,  I  mean.  I  can  say  this 


90  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

openly  to  you,  because  you  are  sensible 
and  know  me,  and  will  not  think  at  once, 
because  he  is  a  man  and  I  a  woman,  that 
there  is  any  question  here  of  sentiments 
exceeding  friendship.  We  are  neither 
of  us  children;  he  is  three  or  four  years 
older  than  I,  I  should  imagine,  —  twenty- 
nine  or  thirty,  or  thereabouts. 

For  aught  I  know,  he  may  already  have 
loved  and  lost  as  I  have;  and  were  it  even 
possible  that  I  should  ever  love  again,  I 
hardly  think  that  Gabriel  would  be  the 
man.  Anyway,  we  are  excellent  friends, 
and  I  believe  that  my  companionship  has 
become  as  precious  to  him  as  his  is  to 
me.  We  meet  now  every  two  or  three 
days,  and  walk  together,  either  before 
breakfast  or  after  early  dinner. 

Did  your  ears  burn  on  Wednesday  ?  I 
told  him  a  great  deal  about  you.  We  had 
been  having  one  of  our  customary  argu- 
mentative conversations,  principally  about 


Letter  XVI.  91 

marriage,  more  especially  still  about  the 
horrors  of  false  marriages,  and  this  led  me 
to  tell  him  that  the  best  friend  I  have  on 
earth  is  infamously  bound  for  the  whole 
of  her  dear  life  by  a  marriage  contracted 
before  she  was  seventeen  years  old.  He 
thinks,  dearest,  with  me,  that  you  ought 
to  face  the  horrors  of  the  divorce  court 
rather  than  linger  on  in  chains,  and  cer- 
tainly listen  no  longer  to  the  considera- 
tions, pecuniary  and  otherwise,  which 
influence  your  mother. 

I  fancy,  from  the  way  in  which  he 
spoke,  that  his  father  and  mother  were  not 
happy  together;  he  has  therefore  not  had 
in  his  life  the  blessing  that  was  mine,  — 
the  daily  contemplation  of  an  absolutely 
perfect  union.  Indeed,  he  hardly  seems 
to  believe  in  the  possibility  of  ideal  mar- 
riages, and  declares  that  he  himself  will 
certainly  never  marry  unless  some  law  is 
passed  whereby  men  and  women  shall  be 


92  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

able  to  bind  themselves  for  a  limited 
number  of  years,  at  the  expiration  of 
which  they  may  either  renew  the  bond  or 
go  free.  I  laughed  when  he  said  this, 
for  I  thought  he  was  jesting;  so  he  was, 
partly,  yet  more  than  half  in  earnest. 

"No,  no,"  said  he;  "I  shall  never 
marry.  I  had  sooner  not  break  the  laws 
of  my  country,  but  if  it  came  to  be  a 
question  between  breaking  them  or  the 
laws  of  true  morality,  I  should  not  hesitate 
in  my  choice.  Love  without  marriage  is 
a  sin  against  society;  marriage  without 
love  is  a  sin  against  Nature." 

Of  course  he  is  right.  How  my  mother 
would  have  loved  him !  Do  you  remem- 
ber her  invectives  against  marriage?  It 
was  the  very  perfection  of  the  tie  between 
her  and  my  father  that  filled  her  with 
indignation  and  regret  whenever  she 
looked  about  her  and  beheld,  on  all 
sides,  the  parody  of  her  heaven. 


Letter  XVI.  93 

Good-bye.     You  are  getting  very  lazy, 
Mrs.  Norris.     How  dare  you  leave  me 
letterless  so  long? 
Write  directly  you  get  this  to 

Your  loving 
EMILIA. 


LETTER  XVII. 
GRAYSMILL,  November  2ist. 

FOR  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  have 
been  a  little  cross  with  you,  Constance  of 
my  heart.  My  anger  did  not  last  long, 
but  even  when  it  was  practically  at  an  end 
I  felt  obliged  to  play  at  being  cross  with 
you,  and  therefore  would  not  write.  But 
to-day  comes  another  sweet  letter  from 
you,  and  I  am  miserable  to  think  you 
should  have  had  to  write  a  second  time 
before  getting  an  answer  to  your  dear 
words.  Forgive  me !  I  do  love  you  so ! 
I  shall  tell  you  quite  frankly  why  I  was 
cross.  You  must  never  tease  me  again 
about  Gabriel  Norton.  I  don't  like  to 
be  teased  at  the  best  of  times,  and  I  think 
it  positively  wrong  to  make  love  a  subject 
94 


Letter  XVII.  95 

for  laughter  and  nonsense.  You  see,  I 
allow  that  I  love  him;  of  course  I  do,  but 
not  as  you  imagine.  Surely  there  is  a 
love  of  spirit  to  spirit  which  stands  higher 
than  the  material  love  of  man  and  woman. 
It  is  just  because  we  look  upon  each 
other  in  the  first  place  as  human  beings, 
as  comrades  on  the  road  of  life,  that  our 
friendship  is  a  source  of  strength  and 
comfort  to  us.  If  either  were  to  harbour 
other  thoughts,  all  that  is  beautiful  in  our 
intercourse  must  come  to  an  end.  No, 
you  are  silly;  you  must  never  say  such 
things  again,  promise  me  that.  Why,  it 
is  just  the  very  absence  of  love  that  makes 
our  friendship.  If  only  people  would 
believe  this,  if  only  men  and  women 
would  learn  to  exchange  their  thoughts  in 
freedom,  to  be  simple  and  open  in  their 
dealings  with  each  other,  what  a  much 
better  world  this  world  would  be! 
But  you  are  just  like  the  rest;  indeed, 


96  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

worse  than  the  rest.  Because,  somehow 
or  other,  whether  it's  the  fault  of  your 
curls  or  of  your  lips,  or  of  your  smile,  or 
of  your  whole  sweet  self,  I  know  not,  but 
because  no  man  ever  draws  near  you  but 
what  you  make  a  fool  of  him,  you  seem  to 
think  all  men  resemble  your  victims,  all 
women  you,  their  bane.  No,  you  don't, 
though;  I  malign  you.  Do  you  remember 
saying  to  me  one  day:  "Try  and  make 
yourself  appear  a  little  silly  sometimes, 
Emilia,  do,  now !  Men  never  fall  in  love 
with  clever  women ! "  And  right  you 
were.  The  only  passions  I  ever  inspired 
flared  through  their  day  in  the  bosoms  of 
women  and  boys.  Never  mind!  I  had 
sooner  have  Gabriel's  friendship  than  ten 
thousand  of  your  lovers;  I  had  sooner 
see  you  too,  sweet,  with  such  a  friend  as 
he  to  lean  upon,  than  surrounded  as  you 
are  now  by  the  foolish  and  ugly  admira- 
tion of  worthless  men. 


Letter  XVII.  97 

There,  enough  lecturing  for  the  pres- 
ent. It's  understood,  eh? 

Gabriel  and  Jane  Norton  have  actually 
been  here  to  tea.  What  do  you  say  to 
that?  I  must  tell  you  how  it  came  about; 
it's  a  long  story,  but  you  shall  have  it  all. 
The  other  day,  my  friend  and  I  were 
overtaken  by  a  rain-storm  on  the  heath; 
we  ran  as  fast  as  we  could  to  the  Thatched 
Cottage,  and  there  I  remained  fully  two 
hours,  till  the  rain  had  given  over.  As 
Gabriel  was  very  restless  and  unmanage- 
able, I  suggested  that  we  might  turn  his 
superfluous  energy  to  good  account  by 
arranging  the  library.  How  those  dear 
creatures  keep  alive,  I  cannot  imagine; 
they  are  helpless  and  unpractical  beyond 
all  belief.  Jane  Norton  has  absolutely 
no  sense  of  order,  the  household  drifts 
along  as  best  it  can.  "I  hate  it  so," 
she  groans;  "I  have  a  horror  of  it  all." 
That  very  afternoon  I  tore  my  dress  and 


98  The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

wanted  to  mend  it.  A  brass  thimble  was 
soon  produced  from  the  kitchen  clock, 
where  Jane  keeps  it  "to  have  it  handy," 
but  never  were  needle  and  thread  more 
difficult  to  procure.  After  much  hunting, 
a  dirty  reel  of  white  cotton  was  discovered 
in  the  soup-tureen,  the  needle-case  had 
entirely  disappeared;  she  finally  man- 
aged, however,  to  squeeze  some  rusty  kind 
of  skewer  out  of  her  pincushion,  and  with 
these  implements  I  mended  my  skirt  as 
best  I  could.  But  to  return  to  the 
library.  The  confusion  we  found  it  in 
is  indescribable.  When  first  we  began 
operations  Gabriel  stood  about  in  a  help- 
less way,  but  he  became  enthusiastic  as 
the  work  of  clearance  advanced,  and 
laboured  with  good  will. 

"This was  a  veritable  inspiration!"  he 
cried  presently,  perching  himself  upon 
the  table;  "there  hasn't  been  a  corner  to 
sit  upon  for  weeks,  not  for  weeks.  It's 


Letter  XVIL  99 

very  odd :  I  believe  that  I  much  prefer  to 
see  things  kept  in  order,  only  I  haven't 
the  least  idea  how  to  bring  such  a  state 
about.  None  of  us  have.  Why!  there's 
Plato !  Blessings  upon  you,  Emilia !  He 
must  have  been  behind  the  piano  quite 
two  months.  I  have  hunted  for  him  high 
and  low."  He  seized  the  volume  rap- 
turously and  began  reading  aloud. 

"That's  all  Greek  to  me,"  said  I. 

"Come  along  then,"  said  he,  "let's 
leave  off  now,  the  room's  beautiful; 
come,  I'll  teach  you  the  alphabet." 

And  this  was  the  germ  of  a  scheme  we 
have  started.  We  had  been  racking  our 
brains  for  some  time  past  how  to  meet 
during  the  winter,  in  defiance  of  shorten- 
ing days,  cold,  rain,  and  prejudice.  Now 
we  have  it.  He  is  to  teach  me  Greek, 
and  will  come  to  the  house  to  give  me 
lessons.  Thanks  to  my  foreign  extraction 
and  to  a  certain  reputation  I  have  got 


ioo         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

here  for  originality,  my  old  ladies  were 
not  at  all  surprised  when  I  told  them  that 
a  poor  gentleman  who  lived  with  his 
father  and  his  aunt  towards  Miltonhoe 
was  coming  twice  a  week  to  teach  me. 
On  the  contrary,  their  kind  old  hearts 
were  touched  at  the  mere  mention  of 
poverty,  and  they  asked  if  I  wouldn't 
invite  Miss  Norton  to  tea;  hence  Mon- 
day's tea-party,  which  was  exceedingly 
funny.  Ida  Seymour  had  gone  to  a 
school  treat  at  Miltonhoe,  so  my  old 
ladies  and  I  had  the  place  to  ourselves. 
They  were  much  distressed,  bless  them, 
at  the  extraordinary  antiquity  of  Jane 
Norton's  black  silk  gown;  Heaven  only 
knows  in  what  year  of  Grace  it  was  fabri- 
cated, and  how  she  manages  to  keep  it 
together.  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  some 
difficulty  in  preventing  Aunt  Caroline 
from  giving  Jane  a  new  dress,  —  she  cer- 
tainly won't  rest  till  she  has  done  so.  As 


Letter  XVII.  101 

for  Gabriel,  he  was  so  remarkably  dusty 
and  threadbare  that  I  set  him  at  table 
with  his  back  to  the  light,  in  such  a 
manner  that  his  mere  silhouette  was  ex- 
posed to  Hopkinson's  scrutiny.  I  must 
allow,  however,  that  he  behaved  beauti- 
fully, and  Jane  was  perfect;  she  made  an 
excellent  impression  on  grandmamma, 
who  is  very  anxious  I  should  invite  her 
again. 

"In  fact,"  said  she,  "I  don't  see  why 
she  shouldn't  come  and  have  a  cup  of  tea 
with  us  every  time  your  teacher  comes; 
then  we  shall  know  she  has  a  good  tea 
twice  a  week  at  least,  poor  thing ! " 

Why  can't  I  see  him  without  these 
subterfuges?  Why  can't  we  meet  here  in 
my  house  in  all  simplicity,  without  fear 
of  that  monster,  the  world,  and  its  mur- 
derous tongue?  It  all  seemed  so  good 
and  so  simple  that  morning  when  he  said 
to  me :  — 


IO2         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

"We  will  be  friends  as  friends  should 
be;  all  shall  be  true  and  free  between  us; 
we  shall  make  exchange  of  our  thoughts, 
and  learn  together  how  to  live." 

Never  mind;  I  am  very  fortunate. 

Good-bye,  my  sweet  dear,  and  again, 
forgive  me !  I  love  you. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XVIII. 

GRAYSMILL,  November  26th. 

BLESS  you  for  all  your  words !  Yes,  you 
must  come  out  to  me  next  spring,  and 
then  we  three  can  be  friends  together: 
three  should  be  more  beautiful  than  two, 
in  such  harmony  as  ours  would  be.  I 
take  it  for  granted  that  you  and  Gabriel 
will  care  for  each  other;  it  would  be  a 
great  grief  to  me  if  you  did  not.  I  hate 
people  I  like  not  to  like  each  other; 
nothing  hurts  more  —  except,  perhaps,  to 
oneself  dislike  a  friend's  friend. 

My  Greek  is  getting  on;  I  am  fearfully 
industrious,  and  have  even  pinned  up  the 
declensions,  written  out  in  a  large  hand, 
on  my  bedroom  wall,  so  that  I  can  learn 
them  whilst  I  dress. 

103 


104         Tke  Wings  of  Icarus. 

Gabriel  is  quite  pleased  with  his  pupil, 
and  I  have  begun  to  teach  him  Italian. 
He  reads  it  very  well,  but  cannot  speak 
it  at  all  at  present.  We  had  a  long  talk, 
the  other  day,  about  his  future.  I  think 
it  will  be  quite  impossible  for  him  to 
continue  this  mode  of  life  very  long;  I 
find  that  I  am  not  so  happy  about  him  as 
I  was  at  first.  Sometimes  I  think  I  should 
like  to  give  him  half  my  money  —  how 
ridiculous  it  seems  that  such  a  thing 
should  be  out  of  the  question !  —  and  let 
him  lead  the  tranquil  life  of  study  and 
contemplation  that  he  loves,  send  him  to 
other  lands  where  he  might  wander  up 
and  down  in  the  sunshine,  seeing  the 
world  and  all  its  beauties, —  he  that  has 
eyes  to  see,  a  heart  to  feel.  But  then,  at 
other  times,  I  feel  that  I  should  like  to 
strip  him  even  of  the  little  he  has,  and 
hurl  him  into  the  very  vortex  of  life,  see 
him  struggle  and  fight  and  come  out  a 


Letter  XVIII.  105 

conqueror.  I  see  in  him  the  germs  of  so 
much  greatness  that  I  cannot  believe  he 
was  meant  to  dream  his  days  away  on  the 
heather.  It  was  right  of  him,  certainly, 
to  break  from  a  course  of  life  he  felt 
himself  unable  to  pursue,  and  right  it  is 
also  that  he  should  pause  now,  and 
breathe,  and  feel  his  wings.  But  it  will 
soon  be  time  for  energy  and  action.  We 
are  not  here  for  ourselves  only;  there  is 
so  much  to  be  done.  And  if  I  am  often 
discontented  with  myself  for  the  futility 
of  my  dreams,  for  sitting  here  a  mere 
spectator,  as  it  were,  of  struggles  that  I 
long  to  share,  yet  know  not  how,  greater 
still  is  my  impatience  at  the  sight  of  one 
wasting  his  days  in  mere  speculation,  who, 
having  all  the  strength,  the  manhood,  that 
I  lack,  might  leap  into  the  very  thick  of 
the  fight,  Truth's  warrior. 

He  tells  me  that  he  has  written  a  great 
deal,  and  has  promised  to  bring  me  a 


io6         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

bundle  of  poems  to  read  at  my  leisure. 
"You  must  understand,"  said  he,  "that 
you  will  be  the  only  one  to  whom  I  ever 
showed  them."  I  feel  very  proud. 

To  revert  to  what  I  said  above,  I 
believe,  too,  that  it  is  very  bad  for  any 
man  not  to  have  a  fixed  occupation;  how- 
ever great  his  natural  energy  may  be,  it 
either  relaxes  with  time,  or  expends  itself 
uselessly.  The  mere  thinker  often  ends 
by  hovering  on  the  confines  of  lunacy. 
Good-bye,  dear  love. 

Your  EMILIA. 


LETTER  XIX. 
GRAYSMILL,  November  3oth. 

I  WRITE  to  you  very  soon,  partly  because 
of  your  letter  that  crossed  mine,  but  prin- 
cipally because  I  feel  that  I  must  write 
you  a  few  words  before  I  go  to  sleep.  I 
have  just  gone  through  Gabriel's  poems, 
and  am  beside  myself  with  wonder. 
Constance,  the  creature  is  a  genius.  I 
marvel  at  my  happiness,  that  I  should 
have  touched  his  life.  No,  I'll  not  write; 
I  feel  that,  if  I  do,  I  shall  write  bosh. 
Good-night;  I  hope  you  are  sleeping  fast 
at  this  moment, —  and  he  too. 

December  1st. 

We   had  a  walk  this   afternoon.     He 
looks  pale,  poor  dear !  he  has  had  a  cold. 
107 


io8         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

How  it  hurts  to  see  ill-health  on  a  face 
that  one  loves ! 

We  had  a  great  altercation  about  his 
poems.  I  could  not  speak  of  them  when 
I  put  the  manuscript  into  his  hands;  any 
words  I  might  have  used  must  have 
sounded  fulsome  flattery.  But  later  on, 
I  asked :  — 

"  Have  you  thought  of  a  publisher  for 
your  verse?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  made  a  face  at 
me. 

"You  must  certainly  publish  those 
poems,"  I  said;  "you  surely  know  that 
they  are  unusually  beautiful,  and  that  you 
have  no  right  to  keep  them  to  yourself." 

"Dear  Emilia,"  he  answered,  "I  like 
to  hear  this  from  you,  but  you  are  mis- 
taken. My  poems  are  not  so  remarkable 
as  you  imagine;  you  are  too  near  a  friend 
to  be  a  fair  judge.  They  are  intensely 
subjective, —  that  is,  by  the  way,  one  of 


Letter  XIX.  109 

their  faults;  they  reflect  me;  therefore 
you,  who  know  me  well  and  care  for  me, 
find  them  sympathetic.  That's  the  whole 
of  the  tale." 

"  If  I  cared  for  you  ten  times  more  than 
I  do,"  said  I  then,  "I  should  not  be  quite 
so  blind  as  you  suppose.  But,  if  you 
doubt  my  judgment,  ask  some  one  else,  or 
compare  the  poems  yourself  with  other 
verse." 

"  Never !  "  he  said.  "  How  can  you 
even  suggest  such  a  thing?  Look  here, 
Emilia.  A  man  has  an  ideal,  a  glimpse 
of  something  glittering  up  there  in  highest 
Heaven;  he  tries  to  shape  his  vision  into 
words.  When  he  afterwards  turns  to  his 
work  coldly,  critically,  how  shall  he  judge  ? 
He  must  take  measure  by  the  height  of 
the  ideal,  not  by  the  achievement  of 
another,  even  if  that  other  be  nearer 
Heaven  than  himself." 

I  found   this  very  fine  and  true,  yet 


no         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

selfish.  Had  he  ever  climbed  less  high 
than  he  wished,  he  might  at  least  stand 
forth,  and  showing  where  he  stood,  stretch 
out  a  hand  to  others. 

"No,"  he  replied  again,  "no,  I  am  too 
weak  myself  to  help  others.  Dear  girl, 
don't  you  see  that  those  things  were 
written  with  the  blood  of  my  heart?  Cold 
men  would  read  them,  tear  them  to 
pieces.  Emilia!  they  would  review  me !" 

He  said  this  with  a  sort  of  yell  of 
despair.  I  saw  that  he  was  in  a  perfectly 
impossible  mood,  so  I  left  him  in  peace. 
We  talked  of  you  afterwards,  and  he  sent 
you  his  love.  Was  that  bold  or  not?  If 
you  don't  care  for  the  gift,  send  it  back 
to  me.  I  am  very  hungry  for  that  same 
food. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XX. 

December  6th. 

THE  snow  is  on  the  ground;  'tis  a  beau- 
tiful white  world.  Yet  to-day  has  been  a 
dull  day.  I  had  my  lesson  yesterday.  I 
spent  the  whole  of  this  afternoon  prepar- 
ing a  list  of  Christmas  charities,  in  which 
Aunt  Caroline  and  Ida  Seymour  helped 
me,  good^  souls.  I  can  think  of  nothing 
but  flannel  this  evening.  That  is  a  lie, 
by  the  way;  I  almost  wish  it  were  not. 
Yesterday  Gabriel  and  I  had  an  adven- 
ture. I  was  walking  part  of  the  way  back 
with  him  and  Jane  Norton,  who  had  been 
taking  tea  with  my  old  ladies,  and  as  we 
went  past  a  cottage,  just  off  the  lane,  we 
heard  fearful  screams.  Gabriel  sprang 
in,  I  following,  and  there  we  found  a 


112         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

woman  beating  a  little  girl  with  a  broom. 
Gabriel's  eyes  were  like  fire;  he  caught 
the  child  in  one  hand,  the  broom  in  the 
other;  I  thought  he  meant  to  bring  it 
down  on  the  woman's  back.  We  stayed 
there  some  time,  he  lecturing  the  mother, 
I  consoling  the  poor  mite.  She  was 
wretchedly  clad;  I  shall  bring  her  some 
clothes  to-morrow. 

I  am  dull.  I  meant  to  write  you  a  long 
letter,  but  somehow  I  can't.  Farewell 
until  to-morrow. 

December  I3th. 

What  will  you  be  thinking  of  me? 
Your  silence  is  almost  more  unbearable 
than  a  letter  of  reproach  would  be;  I  had 
not  realised  until  I  found  the  above  frag- 
ment in  my  desk  just  now,  how  miserably 
long  it  is  since  last  I  wrote  to  you. 
Write  to  me,  my  dearest;  I  need  to  feel 
your  love.  I  think  I  am  not  very  well 
just  now;  you  must  forgive  me,  yet  don't 


Letter  XX.  113 

be  anxious  on  my  account.  I  don't  feel 
very  well,  that's  all;  there  is  nothing  the 
matter  with  me.  Neither  is  there  any- 
thing to  tell  you;  all  goes  on  as  usual. 
Gabriel  is  well. 

Oh,   my  pretty    Constance,   I    cannot 
write!     I  shall   send   off   this  miserable 
scrap,  and  write  again  very  soon. 
Your  poor  fool, 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXI. 

December  i8th. 

THANK  Heaven  that  you  are  here,  in 
the  world ;  I  should  die  if  you  were  not. 
Let  me  think,  where  shall  I  begin?  At 
the  end;  that  is  nearest.  I  have  only  just 
come  upstairs;  I  have  been  shaking  in  the 
dark.  They  are  beasts;  I  hate  them  all. 
I  was  sitting  playing  cribbage  with  grand- 
mamma after  supper,  when  Uncle  George 
was  announced.  He  wanted  to  speak  to 
me,  he  said.  I  took  him  into  the  break- 
fast room,  and  there  he  told  me  in  a  fat 
pompous  voice  that  I  —  O  Dio,  my  blood 
still  burns  to  think  of  it,  and  the  way  in 
which  he  said  it  —  that  I  was  getting 
myself  talked  about  in  the  neighbour- 
hood; that  probably  I  didn't  know,  owing 
114 


Letter  XXL  115 

to  my  foreign  education,  that  it  wasn't 
the  thing  here  in  England  to  let  oneself 
be  seen  constantly  alone  in  the  company 
of  a  young  man;  that  he  thought  it  his 
duty,  etc.,  etc. 

"Thank  you,"  said  I, —  my  very  skin 
felt  tight, —  "I  see  that  I  must  be  more 
underhand  in  my  actions,  and  contrive 
to  see  my  friends  entirely  on  the  sly." 

"Excuse  me,  my  dear  niece,"  inter- 
rupted Uncle  George,  "but  I  feel  it  my 
duty  to  fill  a  father's  place  by  you.  It 
isn't  as  if  you  could  possibly  marry  this 
young  Norton;  he  hasn't  a  penny;  and  as 
it  is  now  some  time  since  first  the  rumour 
of  your  very  careless  behaviour  reached 
my  ears,  I  have  been  able  to  make  full 
inquiries  into  the  matter.  His  ante- 
cedents, to  say  no  more " 

Constance,  did  you  ever  hear  of  such 
infamy.  I  believe  I  grew  perfectly  green; 
Heaven  knows  what  I  said,  but  you  have 


Ii6         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

seen  me  lose  my  temper  once !  When  I 
mastered  myself,  Uncle  George  was  stand- 
ing by  the  door,  looking  considerably 
startled;  I  was  on  a  chair,  shaking  from 
head  to  foot.  After  a  moment's  silence 
I  said: 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  for  losing  my  self- 
control  as  I  did  just  now;  I  am  very  sorry, 
but  you  have  done  me  a  great  wrong.  I 
know  you  meant  it  for  the  best;  so  we 
will  say  no  more  about  it.  I  only  hope 
that  you  will  leave  me  and  my  friends 
alone  in  future.  I  am  twenty-six  and  my 
own  mistress,  and  I  care  for  my  good 
name  every  whit  as  much  as  you  do." 

Then  he  left  me,  and  I  came  upstairs. 

So  now  they  have  done  it !  They  have 
touched  my  paradise  with  their  dirty 
fingers.  O  Constance !  how  is  it  to  be 
borne?  My  one  comfort  is  that  Gabriel 
knows  nobody,  hears  nothing;  if  such 
talk  were  to  reach  his  ears,  I  should  kill 
myself. 


Letter  XXL  117 

Yet  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well  that  this 
blow  has  come  to  me.  It  has  given  me 
the  shock  I  needed.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  keep  away  from  Gabriel  as  long 
as  I  can;  it  is  best  so.  Christmas  chari- 
ties, etc.,  will  serve  as  a  sufficient  excuse. 

Constance,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  all;  I 
trust  so  to  your  understanding  and  your 
love.  It  seems  strange,  perhaps,  to  speak 
as  I  am  about  to  speak;  I  shall  burst  if  I 
don't.  It  is  this:  I  love  him,  I  love  him 
horribly,  horribly;  I  cannot  bear  it.  Why 
must  one  do  this?  Why  couldn't  it  last, 
our  white  friendship?  On  his  side  it 
might;  he  loves  me,  I  know,  but  only  as 
I  loved  him  at  first.  He  loves  me  very 
much.  I  am  grown  in  a  way  indispensable 
to  him,  but  his  love  makes  him  content; 
it  will  not  kill  him.  Mine  is  grown 
unbearable. 

Perhaps  I  should  have  told  you  this 
before,  yet  I  have  not  known  it  very  long. 


n8         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  knew  some  time  ago  that  all  my  joy  is 
in  him;  he  has  been  for  many  weeks  the 
goal  of  my  eyes,  the  centre  of  my  thought; 
the  time  I  spent  away  from  him  was  dead 
time;  when  I  was  with  him  I  was  flooded 
in  peace.  But  all  this  was  joy,  not  pain. 
That  came  later;  the  time  I  spent  away 
from  him  was  no  longer  dead,  it  was  liv- 
ing longing. 

One  day,  about  a  week  ago,  I  had  for- 
gotten him  (I  forget  how  I  managed  that !), 
but  suddenly  the  thought  of  him  returned 
to  me.  I  felt  a  sudden  sharp  pain  at  my 
heart,  a  sort  of  aching  that  tingled  through 
me  to  my  very  finger-tips.  I  knew  then 
how  it  was  with  me. 

Next  day  I  did  not  go  to  meet  him  in 
the  wood  as  I  had  promised;  I  went 
straight  to  the  cottage;  I  feared  myself. 
When  he  returned  at  tea-time,  he  came 
up  to  me  and  took  my  hand  with  more 
friendship  than  of  wont. 


Letter  XXL  119 

"Oh,  Emilia!"  he  cried,  "why  have 
you  failed  me?  I  have  been  so  anxious; 
I  feared  you  were  ill." 

He  said  this  as  a  brother  might  have 
said  it;  he  looked  me  full  in  the  face  as 
serenely  as  the  stars  at  night.  I  looked 
back  at  him;  his  calm  fell  upon  me,  and 
I  laughed  at  myself  for  my  fears.  I  got 
better  after  that,  yet  not  well;  I  was  never 
at  ease.  To-day  we  were  together  very 
long;  I  was  perfectly  happy;  we  had 
spoken  of  beautiful  things,  calmly,  in 
great  peace.  But  at  parting  he  forgot  to 
let  my  hand  go;  he  held  it  so  long  that 
I  had  time  to  feel  his,  and  my  blood 
bounded  through  me  in  great  waves.  I 
still  think  he  must  have  felt  it;  if  he 
did,  I  can  never  look  at  him  again. 

I  hate  myself  for  loving  him  so;  I  hate 
myself  that  I  suffer  through  him;  the  fault 
seems  his,  being  entirely  mine. 

And  now  I  wish  that  I  had  never  seen 


I2O         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

him,  that  all  these  days  of  joy  were  wiped 
out  of  my  life;  for  the  joy  is  turned  to 
misery  and  pain,  and  for  this  there  can 
be  no  cure.  If  he  grew  to  love  me  as  I 
do  him,  it  would  be  unearthly;  such  hap- 
piness is  not  for  this  world.  I  think  that 
if  he  loved  me,  one  of  us  would  surely 
die.  This  is  the  world,  O  Constance! 
Bursts  of  beauty,  bursts  of  bliss,  but  none 
to  live  untouched,  none  to  endure. 

I  have  been  happy;  I  should  not  groan. 
Write  to  me,  dear. 

Your  EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXII. 
GRAYSMILL,  December  agth. 

You  must  hear  from  me  once  again  this 
year,  my  Constance.  Oh,  dearest,  dearest, 
it  has  only  come  to  me  of  late,  when  my 
love  for  you  has  shone  dimly  compared  to 
another,  what  it  is  worth  to  me,  your  love. 
I  cannot  express  myself;  I  am  all  en- 
tangled, hopeless.  But  what  I  mean  is 
this :  you  have  been  one  long  joy  to  me, 
a  sun  that  has  had  no  setting.  I  would  I 
were  as  I  used  to  be,  untouched  by  the 
knowledge  that  love  can  be  hard  pain. 
My  sweet  dear,  you  were  enough;  why 
have  I  learned  this  bitter  knowledge?  Oh, 
how  I  laugh  of  a  night,  thinking  of  myself 
six  months  ago,  thinking  of  what  I  then 
mistook  for  love ! 


122         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

Eleven  days  since  I  saw  him.  I  have 
been  conscious  of  every  hour.  We  were 
busy  here;  there  is  much  to  do  at  Christ- 
mas time.  I  wrote  to  him  that  I  could 
take  no  more  lessons  nor  even  walk  with 
him  for  the  present,  as  I  must  devote 
myself  entirely  to  the  Christmas  work,  and 
he  has  written  to  me  twice.  He  would 
have  me  think  that  he  sits  there  forlorn, 
cursing  Yule-tide  and  charity;  he  says  in 
the  letter  I  received  this  morning,  that 
it  is  time  my  charity  were  turned  in  his 
direction.  I  think  I  shall  go  to  the  cot- 
tage this  afternoon;  there  is  an  end  to  all 
endurance.  Or  shall  I  wait  until  New 
Year's  day?  Perhaps  that  were  best.  I 
like  to  try  my  strength,  to  see  how  much 
can  be  borne. 

I  can  write  no  more  now;  I  must  try 
to  get  through  a  few  other  letters.  I  have 
sent  no  cards  to  Florence.  What  a  worm 
I  am! 


Letter  XXII.  123 

Your  words  of  love  have  helped  me 
through  these  days;  I  carry  the  three  dear 
letters,  along  with  his,  in  my  pocket. 

Good-bye,  dearest;  blessings  upon  you. 
I  think  I  shall  set  forth  in  search  of  you 
very  soon.  May  the  New  Year  be  kind  to 
us  all ! 

Yours  in  deepest  love, 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXIII. 

GRAYSMILL,  January  ist. 

MY  pretty  sweet,  I  have  had  much  hap- 
piness to-day.  First  of  all,  a  letter  from 
you  at  breakfast,  and  one  from  Gabriel, 
then,  sunshine  all  the  morning,  and  all  the 
morning  a  song  in  my  heart;  to-day  I 
shall  see  him ! 

I  set  off  immediately  after  early  dinner, 
and  walked  across  the  Common  to  the 
Thatched  Cottage.  I  cannot  tell  you  what 
it  was  to  me  to  catch  sight  of  the  chimney 
and  the  purling  smoke  again;  I  had  to 
stand  still  and  wait  a  while,  my  heart 
thumped  so.  (A  fool,  eh?)  I  crept 
noiselessly  into  the  house,  and  through 
the  hall,  then  stealthily  opened  the  study 
door.  There  he  sat  on  the  ground  by  the 
124 


Letter  XXIII.  125 

fire,  with  his  back  to  me,  reading,  of 
course. 

"  What  a  careless  person ! "  said  I, 
softly;  "he'll  blind  himself  one  of  these 
days." 

Up  he  jumped. 

"Emilia!"  he  cried,  "dear  Emilia!" 
and,  catching  me  by  both  wrists,  swung 
my  arms  up  and  down  and  to  and  fro. 

"You  faithless  thing,"  said  he,  "you 
false  friend,  I  hate  you !  " 

Here  Richard  Norton  ran  in  from  the 
kitchen,  with  the  teapot  in  his  hand,  fol- 
lowed by  Jane;  they  both  covered  me 
with  welcomes  and  reproaches.  I  was 
very  happy,  I  assure  you.  We  went  into 
the  kitchen  and  had  early  tea,  talking  all 
the  while  and  all  together.  Gabriel  was 
in  one  of  his  impish  moods,  and  made 
me  laugh  till  I  cried.  The  first  thing  I 
thought,  when  I  had  time  to  think,  was 
that  I  had  been  a  fool  to  keep  away  so 


126         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

long  and  allow  myself  to  grow  senti- 
mental; that  it  was  altogether  much  more 
healthful  for  me  to  be  in  his  dear  com- 
pany. 

I  came  home  in  a  much  better  frame  of 
mind,  although  Gabriel  insisted  on  walk- 
ing nearly  as  far  as  Graysmill  with  me, 
and  said  as  we  parted  : 

"  You  must  never  again  leave  me  for  so 
long,  Emilia ;  I  am  lost  without  you,  I 
am,  indeed." 

I  turned  from  him,  half  wishing  he  had 
not  said  this,  feeling  a  little  giddy,  a  little 
less  strong ;  but,  as  I  ran  along,  something 
hit  me  on  the  shoulder.  I  looked  behind 
me,  and  there  he  stood,  like  an  imp  of 
mischief,  pelting  me  with  pine-cones, 
which  it  seems  he  had  collected  in  his 
pocket  for  that  purpose.  So  I  had  to 
laugh,  and  was  cured  again. 

The  year  has  at  least  begun  well. 

Adieu,  my  sweetest.    Things  are  often 


Letter  XXI I L  127 

not  so  bad  as  we  imagine.     With  this 
truism  I  take  my  leave  of  you. 

Your  EMILIA. 

I  think  I  forgot  to  send  a  New  Year's 
wish  to  Mrs.  Rayner.  For  you,  my  love, 
again  all  the  good  that  this  world  holds. 
May  it  rain  upon  you  in  ceaseless  showers ! 


LETTER  XXIV. 

GRAYSMILL,  January  I5th. 

I  HAVE  grown  unutterably  selfish.  I 
only  remembered  this  morning  that  you 
had  asked  me  to  send  you  those  books. 
To  think  that  a  day  should  have  come 
when  I  could  forget  to  do  something 
you  had  asked  me!  I  have  seen  to  it, 
with  much  penitence.  Forgive  me! 

Your  Emilia  is  a  miserable  specimen; 
she  despises  herself  very  much.  I  go  up 
and  down  all  day  like  something  that  has 
lost  its  balance,  neither  have  I  any.  One 
hour  I  am  absolutely  happy;  the  next  I 
am  biting  the  dust.  One  day  I  say  to 
myself,  I  will  never  walk  or  talk  or  read 
or  sit  alone  with  him  again,  —  and  per- 
haps for  that  one  day  I  keep  my  word. 
128 


Letter  XXIV.  129 

But  then,  the  next,  I  do  all  I  meant  not 
to  do,  I  pine  for  it  till  I  bring  it  about. 
And  when  I  have  sat  beside  him  a  little 
while,  doing  my  lessons,  the  Greek  loses 
its  hold  of  my  poor  brain,  my  head  swims, 
I  make  a  blunder;  then  he  laughs  and 
says  he  cannot  understand  how  such  an 
apparently  clever  woman  can  have  such 
a  sieve  for  a  brain.  I  laugh,  and  tell  him 
he's  unmannerly.  Then  we  both  laugh, 
and  I  am  well  until  I  am  ill  again. 

It  is  only  since  I  knew  Gabriel  that  I 
know  how  to  laugh.  I  don't  mean  to  say 
that  I  never  laughed  before.  Do  you  re- 
member how  we  sometimes  screamed  up 
in  my  room  at  Florence?  I  remember, 
too,  as  a  child,  going  into  wild  fits  of 
laughter,  and  mamma  and  I  having  to 
wipe  each  other's  eyes.  But  these  days 
were  few  and  far  between.  I  have  learned 
to  laugh  with  my  years.  Very  fine  wit  is 
lost  upon  me,  and  I  have  certainly  no 


130         The  Wings  of  Icarus, 

native  humour  of  my  own;  but  I  do  know 
how  to  laugh  about  nothing  at  all,  how 
to  make  merry  over  the  thorns  of  life! 
Laughter  was  not  meant  for  the  joyful;  it 
was  made  for  us,  the  sombre  of  soul,  to 
save  our  heart-strings  here  and  there;  like 
the  song  of  a  lark  in  the  sky,  to  bid  us 
lift  our  eyes  from  the  dust  of  the  road. 

Sometimes,  when  I  have  been  laughing 
very  much,  and  then  remember  my  pain, 
I  see  the  vision  of  a  child  that  dances  on 
a  grave-mound  in  the  sun. 

Sweet,  I'll  go  on  to-morrow. 

January  2Oth. 

I  distinguished  myself  to-day !  It  came 
on  to  pour  while  I  was  at  the  Cottage, 
and,  in  spite  of  a  certain  caution  that  has 
crept  into  my  actions  of  late,  I  stayed 
there  the  whole  afternoon. 

Jane  was  actually  making  herself  a  new 
dress,  so  I  offered  to  help  her,  and  we 


Letter  XXIV.  131 

sewed  by  lamplight  at  the  kitchen  table, 
it  being  a  very  dark  afternoon.  Gabriel 
joined  us  after  a  while;  he  thought  we 
looked  so  cosy  that  he  brought  his  books 
and  sat  at  the  table  too,  just  opposite  me. 

You  have  never  really  loved  any  man, 
you,  so  perhaps  you  don't  know  what  it 
is  to  be  afraid  of  your  own  eyes,  because 
you  feel  that  every  time  they  rest  on  that 
thing  you  love,  your  poor  heart  runs  and 
looks  out  of  window. 

I  seldom  look  at  Gabriel  now,  —  I  dare 
not.  But  there  he  sat  opposite  me,  por- 
ing over  his  book.  Jane  was  bent  over 
her  sewing.  I  forgot  her,  and  I  forgot 
my  work  too;  it  slipped  from  my  fingers 
and  fell  into  my  lap.  Suddenly  he  raised 
his  head,  —  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  blood 
in  my  body  rushed  to  my  face;  he  had 
caught  me  all  unguarded;  what  he  might 
not  know  was  laid  bare  before  him.  With 
a  dull,  wide  gaze  he  stared  at  me,  then 


132         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

bent  over  his  book  again;  he  had  not  seen 
me;  he  had  merely  looked  up  to  get  a 
better  view,  as  it  were,  of  something  he 
had  in  mind. 

Then  I,  too,  bent  my  head  low,  for  hot 
tears  stood  in  my  silly  eyes,  and,  to  my 
surprise,  I  felt  a  soft  hand  tuck  my  hair 
behind  my  ears,  caressingly.  I  looked 
up  and  saw  a  world  of  pity  in  Jane  Nor- 
ton's face.  When  presently  Gabriel  left 
the  room  to  fetch  another  volume,  I 
said: 

"Jane,  he  must  never  know  it." 

"My  child,"  she  answered,  speaking  as 
softly  as  I  had  done,  "there  is  no  fear 
that  he  should  learn  it  from  me." 

"From  me,  then?"  asked  I;  "is  it  so 
plain?" 

"You  are  as  pale  as  the  table,"  she 
said.  "Take  care  of  yourself,  Em, — 
don't  be  unhappy,  all's  well." 

Just  then  Gabriel  came  in,  and  I  left 


Letter  XXIV.  133 

soon  after.     You  see  what  an  enemy  I  am 
to  myself. 

Good  night,  dearest;  I  am  your 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXV. 

GRAYSMILL,  January  29th. 

IT  is  so  easy  to  imagine  the  bright  side 
of  things  when  one  is  too  far  away  to  see 
the  truth.  Silly  Constance,  cruel  Con- 
stance, what  is  the  use  of  sending  me  such 
words  of  false  hope?  It  does  not  follow, 
because  you  love  me  best  of  all  the  world, 
that  another  should  do  likewise.  No,  no; 
you  know  nothing  at  all  about  it,  and  yet 
in  spite  of  all  reason,  I  catch  at  every 
straw  you  send  drifting  towards  me.  Once 
and  for  all,  of  course  he  loves  me,  but  it 
stands  just  so.  He  loves  me  too  well  in 
one  way  to  love  me  in  another.  If  he 
loved  me  less,  he  might  love  me  more. 
I  have  said  all  this  to  Jane.  She  declares 
that  the  only  reason  why  he  is  not  in  love 
134 


Letter  XXV.  135 

with  me  is  that  an  obstacle  stands  in  the 
way  which  has  stood  in  the  way  all  along, 
and  which  he  has  never  dreamed  of  sur- 
mounting. She  means  my  accursed 
money.  I  told  her  she  was  completely 
mistaken;  that  love,  inevitable  love, 
knows  nothing  of  obstacles;  besides,  this 
could  not  be  an  obstacle  between  him  and 
me,  —  he  is  too  unworldly  to  be  the  slave 
of  such  prejudice.  If  I  thought  she  was 
right,  who  knows  but  what  I  should  send 
my  money  spinning  into  the  lap  of  Char- 
ity, and  let  that  lady  dispense  it  as  indis- 
criminately and  wastefully  as  she  pleases. 
No,  no;  the  fault  lies  in  another  direction. 
There  has  been  a  little  mistake  some- 
where ;  I  am  not  the  lost  half  of  his  soul, 
for  all  that  he  is  mine. 

Little  Constance,  I  think  now  that  per- 
haps you  were  right  when  you  said  that  I 
was  not  altogether  a  woman.  I  am  cer- 
tainly not  made  as  a  woman  should  be. 


136        The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

A  woman  may  return  love,  but  she  must 
never  dare  to  give  it.  I  have  been 
guilty  of  this  folly,  and  now,  what  is  to 
become  of  me? 

We  are  such  fools,  we  women.  When 
a  man  loves,  he  is  all  that  he  was,  plus 
love;  when  we  love,  we  throw  ourselves 
headlong  into  the  flood,  and  are  nothing 
that  we  were. 

So  now  you  know  all  about  it,  and  can 
prepare  yourself  for  a  gay  companion.  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  leave  England, 
and  join  you  in  Vienna.  No,  it  must  be 
Italy;  you  must  leave  Vienna  and  come 
towards  me. 

You  cannot  see  that  between  the  last 
sentence  and  this  there  is  a  pause  of  ten 
minutes.  It  is  all  very  well  for  me  to 
talk  of  leaving  Graysmill;  I  do  talk  of  it, 
the  words  are  words,  but  I  don't  under- 
stand them.  I  cannot  leave;  I  ought  to, 
—  yet,  Constance,  I  cannot  leave  him ! 


Letter  XXV.  137 

Write,  you,  and  tell  me  where  we  shall 
meet;  not  in  Florence,  I  could  not  bear 
that.  And  yet,  perhaps,  yes,  in  Florence. 
It  will  have  to  be,  and  I  shall  not  realise 
that  I  have  left  him  until  I  am  with  you 
again.  There  is  comfort  in  that  thought. 
One  can  do  anything,  after  all,  with  a 
little  determination,  can't  one,  Constan- 
tia?  Not  that  you  can  judge,  you  who 
never  had  any.  Perhaps  I  have  none  my- 
self, who  knows?  I  have  so  deceived 
myself  in  loving  Gabriel,  and  laid  bare 
such  great  and  unknown  weakness  in  my 
own  bosom,  that  all  the  world  is  upside 
down  for  me,  and  I  can  find  my  way  no 
longer. 

Write  and  tell  me  soon  where  we  shall 

meet. 

Your  EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXVI. 

GRAYSMILL,  February  7th. 

So  it's  all  settled.  You  are  very  good 
to  me,  my  pretty  Constance.  Now  I  say 
to  myself  hourly,  "  In  sixteen  days  I  shall 
see  her,"  and  oh,  believe  me,  I  am  glad! 
I  think  I  am  beginning  to  lose  my  head, 
that  I  am  fit  for  all  folly.  We  walked 
together  yesterday;  we  were  not  very 
talkative.  In  the  lane,  when  we  were 
coming  home,  a  man  on  a  bicycle  turned 
sharply  round  the  corner,  and  I  was  lost 
in  thought,  so  that  I  was  caught  unawares, 
and  in  fact  knew  nothing  of  the  matter 
until  I  felt  myself  pulled  aside  by  Gabriel. 
I  thought  he  would  let  go  my  arm,  but  he 
did  not,  and  for  the  few  yards  of  road 
that  remained  I  could  not  see  out  of  my 
138 


Letter  XX VL  139 

eyes.  I  said  to  myself,  "  He  is  holding 
my  arm,  —  perhaps  he  loves  me. "  I  was  a 
fool;  of  course,  it  meant  nothing;  and  I 
am  certain,  too,  that  it  was  imagination 
on  my  part  led  me  to  believe  he  looked 
differently  at  me  when  he  said  good-bye. 
That  is  what  frightens  me.  Of  course, 
it  was  pure  self-delusion;  but,  if  I  am 
going  to  begin  that  sort  of  folly,  it  is  high 
time  to  come  away.  Indeed,  the  folly 
of  it.  Besides,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  feel 
ashamed.  I  am  sure  he  knows  now  quite 
well  that  I  love  him,  and  perhaps  that  is 
why  he  looked  strangely  at  me  when  he 
said  good-bye.  But  I  don't  want  his  pity; 
O  God  forbid!  Nor  his,  nor  anybody's. 
Do  you  hear  ?  Never  pity  me,  Constance. 
Your  little 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXVII. 

February  I2th. 

COULD  you  meet  me  a  little  sooner,  per- 
haps, and  not  wait  until  the  twenty- third  ? 
I  must  leave  Graysmill  at  once.  I  shall 
go  to  the  Cottage  to-morrow  afternoon, 
and  tell  them.  I  shall  tell  the  others  to- 
night, and  on  Monday  I  shall  leave  Grays- 
mill  forever.  If  you  think  you  cannot 
reach  Florence  by  Wednesday  or  Thurs- 
day, never  mind,  you  will  join  me  as  soon 
as  you  can;  only  send  me  a  telegram.  I 
can  go  and  stay  with  Marianna  until  you 
come. 

I  can  bear  it  no  longer!     The  world 

holds  but  one  thought;  the  day  and  the 

night  are  lost  in  the  constant  reiteration 

of  every  word  he  ever  said  to  me,  in  the 

140 


Letter  XXVII.  141 

resuscitation  of  every  glance,  every  touch. 
And,  poring  over  these  in  my  memory, 
I  try  to  read  between  the  lines  the  words 
that  are  not  there,  to  read  "I  love  you." 

Oh,  I  am  very  weak,  yet,  believe  me, 
it  is  all  against  my  will.  I  have  fought 
this  folly,  I  despise  myself  utterly,  and 
yet  now  I  am  swept  away  by  the  flood,  I 
can  struggle  no  more.  I  shall  die  of  this, 
or  run  mad. 

I  met  him  out  to-day.  We  had  not 
arranged  to  meet;  but,  as  I  went  out  at 
the  blue  door,  there  he  stood.  We  went 
a  little  way  together;  then  I  left  him;  it 
was  unbearable.  It  was  so  beautiful  once 
to  be  with  him,  when  we  could  talk  freely 
of  all  that  is  best  and  noblest  in  life.  I 
cannot  talk  to  him  now,  sometimes  I  can- 
not even  hear  what  he  says  to  me.  I 
cannot  see  the  sky,  the  broad  white  earth; 
I  see  him  only.  I  cannot  hear  the  life- 
sounds  about  me;  I  only  hear  his  footfall 


142         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

in  the  snow.  It  is  all  pain,  all  dreadful 
pain,  dreadful,  unbearable  longing. 

Why  can't  I  put  an  end  to  all  this? 
Why  can't  I  go  to  him  and  say,  I  love 
you,  tell  me  the  truth?  I  know  it, —  the 
truth, —  he  does  not  love  me;  and  yet, 
until  I  hear  his  lips  say  it,  a  false  hope 
that  reason  cannot  kill  will  linger  on  in 
my  heart, —  linger  on,  I  know  it,  even 
when  I  have  placed  time  and  space  be- 
tween him  and  me. 

Only  one  life,  and  there  we  stand,  two 
spirits  under  the  sky,  two  that  believe  in 
Truth  and  Freedom,  parted  by  insincer- 
ity. The  vile  weed  has  crept  up  around 
us;  we  are  parted  by  falsehood,  even  we. 
Good  night.  Perhaps  I  shall  not  write 
again.  I  shall  send  you  a  telegram  before 
I  start,  on  Monday. 

Come  to  me,  dear,  as  soon  as  you  can. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXVIII. 

February  I3th. 

DEAREST,  I  have  had  a  strange,  wonder- 
ful dream.  To-morrow  morning,  when  I 
awake,  I  shall  find  it  was  not  true.  Shall 
I  tell  it  you? 

I  handle  it  as  some  frail  treasure  that 
I  fear  to  touch.  I  keep  wondering  on 
which  side  to  turn  it,  so  that,  when  I 
hold  it  up,  you  may  see  it  shine.  The 
earth  is  very  beautiful  to-night;  from  my 
window  I  see  the  moon  and  a  mighty 
host  of  glittering  worlds,  —  even  Emilia  is 
beautiful  to-night !  I  went  to  the  glass 
just  now,  to  look  upon  the  face  of  happi- 
ness, and,  instead  of  myself  I  saw  —  Oh, 
but  why  say  all  this?  Why  not  tell  you? 


144         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  cannot;  words  are  weak,  but  I  think 
you  can  feel  it,  Constance.  Oh,  sweetest, 
I  think  you  can,  I  think  you  know.  I  am 
half  mad  to-night;  that  is  why  I  write  so 
queerly.  But  now  I  will  set  it  down.  I 
wonder  what  it  looks  like,  written  down. 
I  shall  write  it  very  neatly;  it  will  look 
pretty.  Gabriel  loves  me.  Do  you  see  ? 
Gabriel  loves  me.  I  think  I  shall  write 
it  again,  —  Gabriel  loves  me.  I  never 
wrote  anything  that  pleased  me  so  well, 
and  my  heart  sings  it  within  me  unceas- 
ingly. Oh,  of  course  it  is  not  true;  it 
is  just  a  dream.  I  think  this  is  how  the 
dream  went. 

I  sat  in  the  study  at  the  Thatched  Cot- 
tage; we  were  all  four  there;  I  had  not 
spoken  for  a  while;  the  thing  I  had  to 
say  weighed  me  down.  I  said  it  sud- 
denly, "I  am  going  back  to  Florence;  I 
shall  leave  Graysmill  on  Monday." 

Richard  Norton  cried,  "What?"  and 


Letter  XXVIII.  145 

Jane  cried,  "  Emilia ! "  It  was  only 
Gabriel  that  said  nothing. 

He  sprang  up,  and  looked  at  me  in 
silence.  Thank  Heaven,  my  back  was  to 
the  window,  for  I  could  not  take  my  eyes 
away  from  his.  I  thought  he  grew  a  little 
pale;  I  even  thought  his  lips  moved  a 
little.  Then  he  spoke. 

"No,  no;  who  said  that?  We  cannot 
spare  you.  Emilia,  Emilia,  you  must 
never  leave  us !  " 

That  is  how  the  dream  goes.  I  put  my 
head  down  on  the  table. 

"God  knows,"  I  said,  "I  do  not  want 
to  leave  you." 

There  was  a  long  silence;  I  sat  there 
bowed,  struggling  with  my  tears;  I  think 
I  heard  footsteps  and  a  closing  door. 
Then  a  hand  was  laid  upon  my  shoulder, 
—  I  knew  whose  hand  it  was,  and  I  shook 
beneath  it. 

I  only  know  one  thing  more  that  I  can 


146         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

tell  you.  I  heard  a  voice.  It  was  not 
a  loud  voice,  but  it  rang  through  the  dark- 
ness; it  swept  the  world  away. 

"Emilia!"  it  said,  "Emilia,  you  must 
not  leave  us !  Stay  with  me,  —  I  love 
you ! " 

And  then  some  cloud  fell  upon  us. 

Good  night,  dear,  good  night. 


LETTER  XXIX. 
THE  THATCHED  COTTAGE,  February  igth. 

GABRIEL  and  I  are  sitting  in  the  study; 
we  have  your  letter  before  us.  These  few 
lines  are  to  thank  you,  if  we  can,  for  your 
most  precious  words.  Now  nothing 
fails  us. 

Your  most  loving,  grateful, 

EMILIA  FLETCHER. 
Your  servant, 

GABRIEL  NORTON. 

P.  S.  The  blot  is  Gabriel's. 

P.  S.  2.  In  answer  to  yours.  Gabriel 
is  not  so  inconsistent  as  you  suppose,  nor 
is  Emilia.  We  have  made  a  provision  to 
which  you,  Constance  Norris,  shall  bear 
witness.  Namely  this:  that,  in  accord- 
ance with  the  absolute  Sincerity  and 


148         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

Truthfulness  which  we  believe  to  be  not 
only  possible,  but  necessary  to  the  Con- 
duct of  a  Noble  Life,  we  have  solemnly 
promised  each  other  to  confess  the  truth, 
should  we  at  any  future  period  —  through 
altered  Love  or  other  causes  —  consider 
Mutual  Life  inconsistent  with  perfect 
Honesty. 

There !  We  have  worded  that  beauti- 
fully, I  think,  although  Gabriel  insists  that 
"Mutual  Life"  is  an  incorrect  expres- 
sion. I  don't  care;  it  says  what  I  mean. 
Needless  to  add  that,  in  our  case,  such  a 
prevision  is  as  good  as  superfluous,  but 
we  feel  bound  to  act  up  to  our  principles ! 


LETTER  XXX. 

GRAYSMILL,  February  igth. 

BELOVED,  we  wrote  you  a  few  lines 
together  this  afternoon,  but  I  must  write 
again,  I  alone,  to  thank  you  for  your 
letter  and  tell  you  all  you  ask  to  know. 
Yet,  indeed,  I  know  not  what  to  tell  you. 
I  am  happy;  the  sun  is  in  my  heart.  I 
tried  to  write  to  you  before,  but  the  words 
failed  me;  besides  —  my  own  self  is  a 
stranger  to  me.  This  marvel  of  marvels, 
a  perfectly  happy  woman,  has  nothing  in 
common  with  Emilia  Fletcher,  as  you 
and  I  have  known  her. 

I  believe  that   Lethe  was  Joy's  well. 

The  past  has  floated  from  me  like  a  bank 

of  mist,  I  stand  flooded  in  light.     And  if 

I  look  behind  me  I  see  nothing.     Two 

149 


150         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

phantoms  merely, —  my  love  for  my 
mother,  my  love  for  you, —  all  else  is 
gone.  Where  are  they  now,  the  clouds 
that  pressed  so  close  upon  me?  Three 
words,  and  lo !  the  sky  is  clear.  I  have 
even  forgotten  what  it  felt  like  to  stand 
there  in  the  gloom  with  breaking  heart. 

We  have  made  no  plans  yet;  that  is  to 
say,  we  have  made  so  many  that  choice 
between  them  is  impossible.  Still, 
although  we  build  fresh  castles  in  the  air 
each  time  we  meet,  they  all  float  towards 
Italy,  in  the  springtime,  halting  a  while 
where  Constance  is.  If,  indeed,  there 
be  a  cloud  remaining  in  my  heaven,  it  is 
that  you  two,  my  soul's  monarchs,  know 
each  other  only  through  the  medium  of 
my  love.  My  eyes  long  to  hold  you  both; 
I  want  to  walk  in  the  body,  as  I  do  in 
the  spirit,  clasping  a  hand  of  each. 

And  to  think  that  she  is  dead !  Shall  I 
tell  you  something  very  strange,  almost 


Letter  XXX.  151 

inconceivable?     I  cannot  help  feeling  as 
if  she  knew.     Surely,  Death  cannot  wholly 
part  a  mother  from  her  child. 
Good  night,  my  dear  little  one. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXXI. 

GRAYSMILL,  February  24th. 

I  SHOWED  some  parts  of  your  letter  to 
Gabriel,  and  we  laughed  very  much. 
What  a  bird  she  is,  my  Constance !  He 
is  ever  so  much  taller  than  I.  We  com- 
pared our  height  with  the  utmost  care, 
this  morning,  for  your  especial  benefit. 
Do  you  remember  —  what  should  I  do  to 
you,  by  the  way,  if  you  didn't?  —  that 
when  your  head  is  on  my  shoulder,  my 
chin  just  makes  a  little  roof  for  your 
curls,  so  that  you  always  used  to  say, 
"  How  nicely  we  fit !  "  Well,  there  is  just 
about  the  same  difference  between  Gabriel 
and  me,  as  between  me  and  you.  I  call 
that  very  nice. 

Now,  as  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  My 
152 


Letter  XXXI.  153 

two  old  dears  are  very  sweet  to  me,  and 
to  Gabriel  also.  Indeed,  every  one  is 
pleasant  to  us,  and  if  it  does  come  to  my 
ears  that  I  am  looked  upon  by  Graysmill 
generally  in  the  light  of  a  harmless  luna- 
tic, why,  what  of  that?  I  take  joy  in  the 
thought  that  none  but  myself  knows  the 
value  of  the  treasure  that  is  mine.  One 
good  soul  said  to  me  yesterday:  "We 
think  it  very  nice  of  you,  very  nice  and 
modest.  Such  a  rich  young  lady  as  you 
are,  you  might  have  had  any  one  you 
pleased ! " 

We  went  on  Sunday  to  pay  a  formal 
visit  to  Uncle  George.  That  was  a  terri- 
ble ordeal,  but  we  got  some  fun  out  of  it. 

I  went  to  fetch  Gabriel,  for  Uncle 
George  lives  just  beyond  Miltonhoe.  I 
found  him  in  the  study,  sitting  with  his 
head  in  his  hands,  a  picture  of  misery. 

"Emilia,"  said  he,  "you  dare  not  be 
so  cruel  as  to  expect  this  of  me.  I  can- 


154         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

not  go  and  see  your  uncle,  indeed,  I  can- 
not." 

"You  must,"  said  I;  "I  am  very  good 
to  you  on  the  whole;  this  is  the  only  call 
I  expect  you  to  pay,  but  this  one  must 
be.  Up  with  you,  and  make  yourself 
look  respectable." 

So  off  he  went,  with  despair  in  his  eye, 
and  Jane  and  I  waited  for  him  in  the 
kitchen.  At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he 
reappeared.  He  had  merely  put  on  a 
horrible  black  coat;  for  the  rest,  I  could 
see  no  improvement. 

There  he  stood,  without  hat  or  gloves. 

"I  am  ready,"  said  he. 

"You  imp!"  I  cried;  "you've  been 
playing  about !  What  have  you  been  at 
all  this  time?  Do  you  suppose  I  can 
present  such  a  scarecrow  to  my  rela- 
tions?" 

"Emilia,"  answered  the  poor  dear, 
very  solemnly,  "I  have  washed!" 


Letter  XXXI.  155 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  make 
him  fetch  the  clothes-brush,  and  other 
implements  of  torture.  Jane  and  I 
marched  him  out  into  the  hall,  and  there 
we  prepared  the  victim.  We  brushed 
his  clothes,  and  straightened  his  necktie. 
Even  Richard  Norton  was  so  excited  by 
the  scene  that  he  fetched  the  blacking- 
bottle  and  polished  Gabriel's  boots,  whilst 
Jane  acted  hairdresser  and  I  held  him 
down  by  both  hands.  This  in  the  midst 
of  so  much  laughter  that  the  tears  stood 
in  our  eyes. 

When  at  last  we  turned  him  round  for 
inspection,  smooth-haired  and  stiff  with 
the  consciousness  of  his  respectability,  I 
could  have  wept  at  my  own  handiwork. 

"  You  poor  dear !  "  I  cried.  "  Oh,  Jane, 
doesn't  he  look  horrible! " 

But  Gabriel  went  into  the  parlour  to 
look  at  himself  in  the  mirror,  and  de- 
clared that  he  pleased  himself  mightily. 


156         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

The  visit  itself  was  comparatively  un- 
eventful. They  have  asked  us  to  dine 
next  Friday,  but  I  doubt  whether  we  shall 
go.  Gabriel  suggests  that  we  should  get 
married  at  once  and  fly  from  such  terrors. 

Good-bye  now,  my  sweet  one. 

Yours  more  than  ever,  in  spite  of  all, 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXXII. 

GRAYSMILL,  March  3d. 

I  DON'T  know  how  it  comes,  but  it  is  a 
positive  effort  to  me  to  write  a  letter,  even 
to  you.  If  I  had  not  been  reminded  by 
the  calendar  that  a  new  month  is  already 
on  the  growth,  I  should  not  perhaps  have 
written  to-day. 

There  is  nothing  to  tell  you,  I  am  too 
happy;  and  how  it  comes  I  know  not,  but 
joy  is  difficult  to  express.  Perhaps  be- 
cause it  is  so  rare  that  we  have  hardly 
learned  its  language. 

And  yet,  how  soon  one  gets  accustomed 
to  the  greatest  marvels!  At  first,  I  was 
filled  with  doubt  and  wonder  at  the  mir- 
acle that  had  transformed  me ;  now,  I  take 
it  all  as  a  matter  of  course.  That's  the 


158         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

worst  of  it;  a  clay-fed  mortal  is  lifted  to 
Elysium  and  forgets  at  the  end  of  a  week 
that  he  ever  tasted  coarser  food  than 
ambrosia!  I  am  spoilt  for  life;  if  ever 
any  grief  falls  upon  me  in  the  future,  I 
shall  be  beaten  to  earth. 

The  other  night,  as  I  lay  in  bed,  there 
came  to  me,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
remembrance,  that  horror  of  death  of 
which  you  sometimes  spoke  to  me.  I 
thought  to  myself :  I  shall  lie  thus  in  the 
dark,  only  this  heart  will  be  still,  this 
blood  will  be  cold,  and  there  will  be  no 
dawn  for  me, —  yet  the  world  will  spin  on 
as  before,  and  those  who  loved  me  will 
smile  again.  I  feared  death  for  the  first 
time,  because,  for  the  first  time,  life  is 
dear  to  me.  It  is  the  outcome  of  my 
great  content;  I  cling  to  my  happiness, 
and  Death  is  my  only  enemy,  the  only 
power  that  could  knock  this  cup  of  bliss 
out  of  my  hands.  Oh,  Constance,  to  die 


Letter  XXXIL  159 

before  one  has  drunk  that  full  measure, 
how  horrible ! 

Another  shadow  there  is  that  flits  from 
time  to  time  across  my  eyes.  Why,  if 
such  content  can  be,  is  it  not  universal? 
Why  is  not  every  face  I  meet  stamped 
with  a  similar  joy?  I  lay  awake  long  last 
night,  thinking  of  you.  I  do  not  look 
upon  you  as  actually  unhappy,  that  is  not 
in  your  nature,  you  sunbeam,  yet  you  lack 
in  your  dear  life  the  best  light,  that  of 
another's  shedding.  Now  that  I  know 
what  it  is  to  be  loved,  I  look  upon  the 
blankness  of  your  existence  with  dismay. 

No  more  to-day,  but  I  shall  write  again 
soon,  I  promise. 

Yours  ever  and  always, 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXXIII. 

GRAYSMILL,  March  5th. 

THANK  you,  sweet  one,  for  the  eight 
dear  pages.  I  feel  ashamed  of  the  scrap 
I  sent  you  the  day  before  yesterday.  I 
never  felt  so  lazy  in  my  life  as  I  feel  now. 
One  thing  is  certain,  happiness  is  not 
altogether  good.  Blake  says  somewhere, 
"Damn  braces,  bless  relaxes."  Perhaps 
he  was  right. 

I  am  losing  myself  completely.  Every 
time  I  part  from  him  I  feel  that  he  has 
taken  yet  a  little  more  of  me  away.  He 
absorbs  me,  heart  and  soul.  I  do  not 
complain.  I  feel  a  little  ashamed  of 
myself  from  time  to  time,  when  I  realise 
how  callous  I  have  become  to  everything 
else,  when,  no  matter  what  book  I  take 
160 


Letter  XXXIII.  161 

down  from  the  shelf,  I  find  I  cannot  read 
half  a  page  connectedly;  otherwise  I  am 
perfectly  content  that  it  should  be  so.  Im- 
personal things  —  Nature,  Music  —  have 
perhaps  strengthened  their  hold  on  me; 
because  they  flatter  my  selfishness,  so  to 
speak,  they  are  always  in  tune  with  my 
heart.  Gabriel  more  than  makes  up  for 
my  degeneracy;  of  course  that  should  be, 
seeing  that  he  has  taken  unto  himself  all 
my  intellectual  faculties ! 

He  is  writing  a  simply  astounding 
poem;  he  reads  it  to  me  as  it  grows.  I 
tell  him  he  is  much  more  in  love  with  it 
than  with  me !  When  we  are  out,  he  falls 
into  deep  dreams;  sometimes,  when  they 
are  of  the  kind  that  words  can  fetter,  he 
brings  them  within  my  reach,  and  then  we 
float  together  into  the  realms  of  air. 

But,  although  we  are  hand  in  hand,  I 
know  that  he  has  sight  of  things  I  cannot 
see,  hears  voices  I  cannot  hear;  I  only 

M 


1 62         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

clearly  see  one  vision,  him;  hear  but  one 
voice,  my  own,  that  says,  I  love  you. 

Shall  I  tell  you  something?  I  would 
not  tell  him  for  the  world;  he  would  deny 
it;  he  would  not  understand;  but  you  I 
will  tell.  It  is  this:  I  love  him  more 
than  he  loves  me,  and  in  that  thought  I 
find  content.  When  two  love,  one  must 
love  more  than  the  other,  and  blessed  is 
he  who  loves  best.  I  think  that  if  I  felt 
his  love  o'ershadowed  mine,  I  should  be 
miserable,  I  should  have  some  sensation 
of  unpayable  debt.  As  it  stands,  he  does 
not  know  he  is  my  debtor;  only  I  know 
it,  and  I  delight  in  the  knowledge.  Let 
him  love  me  and  love  me,  he  will  never 
love  me  enough;  on  the  other  hand,  I 
yearn  so  for  his  love  that  all  he  gives  me 
I  cherish  and  am  grateful  for;  by  this 
means,  whether  he  love  me  much  or 
little,  I  shall  always  be  satisfied. 

You  must  not  suppose,  because  of  what 


Letter  XXXIII.  163 

I  say,  that  he  does  not  love  me  intensely; 
my  love  is  unmatchable,  that  is  all.  He 
tells  me  every  day  that  he  could  not  live 
without  me,  and,  indeed,  it  is  true.  He 
relies  upon  me  entirely,  calls  upon  my 
care  incessantly;  and  very  sweet  it  is  to 
feel  that  the  supreme  God  of  my  Heaven 
is  as  a  child  in  my  arms.  Ah,  I  am 
happy,  the  world  is  good,  and  now  the 
spring  is  coming.  We  rejoice  in  the 
growth  of  the  year;  Gabriel  longs  for 
the  first  primrose.  He  is  so  hard  at  work 
that  I  think  it  unlikely  we  shall  get  mar- 
ried before  the  end  of  April;  the  poem 
is  writing  itself  at  present;  it  would  be 
a  sin  to  interfere  with  its  progress.  I 
think,  too,  that  if  he  can  possibly  finish 
it,  he  will  be  able  to  go  away  with  a 
greater  content  upon  him,  with  the  satis- 
faction that  only  achievement  brings.  It 
is,  in  fact,  very  long  since  he  last  com- 
pleted anything. 


164         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

And  then  I  shall  take  him  away,  I,  in 
his  full  content,  to  the  sunshine,  to  the 
land  of  dreams. 

There  are  still  some  things  I  can  hardly 
realise. 

Good-bye,  dearest. 

EMILIA. 


LETTER  XXXIV. 

GRAYSMILL,  March  20th. 

MY  beloved  Constance,  I  am  glad  your 
letter  of  this  morning  has  made  me  a 
little  unhappy;  I  have  been  a  selfish 
brute,  thinking  of  none  but  myself,  and 
him.  I  little  thought,  whilst  I  lay  bask- 
ing in  the  sun,  that  you  stood  there 
shrouded  in  densest  fog.  I  wish  I  had 
written  every  day,  you  poor  sweet ! 

But  now  I  have  evolved  a  plan,  and 
Gabriel  thinks  with  me  that  it  is  a  good 
one.  You  will  find  me  rather  prosaic, 
yet  indeed,  sweetheart,  I  think  you  cannot 
be  well;  these  doleful  dumps  have  noth- 
ing in  common  with  your  nature.  You 
are  not  well,  you  have  no  friend  to  cheer 
you,  and  this  melancholy  is  the  result. 
165 


1 66         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

Come  to  us!  Gabriel  and  I  are  the 
most  undecided  beings  in  creation;  ten 
days  ago  he  threw  up  his  poem  in  disgust; 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  get  married 
at  once  and  start  for  Italy.  A  few  days 
later,  inspiration  set  in,  and  now  he  is 
again  so  deep  in  his  verse  that  we  shall 
stay  here  until  the  poem  is  finished. 
Come  to  us !  You  will  find  us  excellent 
company.  Yes,  dearest,  you  must  do 
this;  who  knows  when  we  may  be  together 
again?  Besides,  there  would  be  a  blank 
in  your  knowledge  of  my  life,  had  you 
never  seen  me  in  this  home,  grown  dear 
to  me  beyond  all  expectation,  through  my 
great  happiness.  Besides,  I  want  you  and 
Gabriel  to  know  each  other. 

Mrs.  Rayner  —  if  you  must  bring  her  — 
will  find  enough  society  at  Graysmill  to 
keep  her  busy  for  a  month  or  two;  I 
think  she  would  get  on  splendidly  with 
Uncle  George  and  his  people. 


Letter  XXXIV.  167 

You  and  I,  my  darling,  will  be  happy 
together  as  of  old.  I  have  told  grand- 
mamma and  Aunt  Caroline  that  I  have 
invited  the  pretty  friend  whose  photo- 
graphs they  admire  so  much,  to  come  and 
stay  with  me;  they  ask  me  to  add  their 
importunities  to  mine. 

Come,  dearest,  and  without  delay,  for 
your  own  sake  and  mine.  Come,  and  let 
us  be  happy  together  whilst  I  am  still 

your  lover  of  old  years. 

EMILIA. 

Answer  immediately,  will  you,  Mrs. 
Norris? 


LETTER  XXXV. 

GRAYSMILL,  March  26th. 

You  are  the  best  friend  that  ever  lived ! 
I  am  quite  restless  with  impatience,  so  is 
Gabriel,  so  are  my  old  ones.  And  who 
most  of  all?  Oh!  little  white  face,  how 
I  long  to  hold  you  in  my  hands  again,  and 
what  warmth  of  love  and  happiness  I  long 
to  pour  into  your  heart ! 

I  shall  not  scold  you,  because  you  are 
not  well,  but  what  do  you  mean  by  saying 
that  you  will  come,  "although  of  course 
we  shall  never  see  each  other"?  Dear 
silly,  do  you  imagine  that  I  spend  the 
whole  day  with  that  creature  you  pretend 
to  be  so  jealous  of? 

Not  a  bit  of  it!  Sometimes,  just  by 
way  of  a  little  salutary  training  in  renunci- 
168 


Letter  XXXV.  169 

ation,  we  don't  even  meet  every  day.  No, 
the  bulk  of  my  time  will  be  yours  and 
mine;  we  will  sit  up  here  in  my  room, 
beneath  my  mother's  portrait;  we  will 
make  the  old  days  live  again,  weld  the 
old  and  the  new  into  one.  Then,  Gabriel 
and  I  will  take  you  with  us  for  walks  fit- 
ting a  fairy,  in  the  woods;  how  you  will 
love  them!  The  trees  are  misty  already 
with  the  promise  of  leaves,  and  all  manner 
of  sweet  things  are  beginning  to  pierce  the 
ground.  How  we  shall  spoil  you,  we  two ! 

So  you  are  coming, —  I  can  hardly 
believe  it.  Never  say  again  that  I  shall 
forget  you.  Let  me  remind  you,  Madam, 
if  all  else  fail  to  convince  you,  that  we 
two  are  women,  and  that  there  is  one 
tender  love,  one  yearning,  which  can  only 
be  betwixt  woman  and  woman. 

There  is  something  infinitely  pathetic 
in  this  truth;  a  man  may  be  the  dearest, 
the  nearest  he  can  never  be. 


Letter  XXXV. 


But  I  must  bless  and  leave  thee.  I 
have  promised  to  meet  Gabriel  at  the 
Post-office. 

My   last    letter.      No    need    to   write 
again.     Oh,  Constantia,  can  it  be  true? 
Yours  in  all  truth, 

EMILIA. 


THE  JOURNAL. 


THE  JOURNAL. 

June  3d,  at  evening.  —  I  am  weak,  very 
weak.  I  never  could  carry  either  joy  or 
trouble  pent  up  in  my  heart. 

It  has  seemed  sometimes  of  late  that  I 
must  be  stifled  by  the  thing  that  troubles 
me.  Yet  it  is  a  trifling  thing;  nothing, 
I  am  sure,  but  a  foolish,  wicked  fear,  a 
little  disease  within  myself.  If  mamma 
were  here,  I  should  just  go  and  lay  my 
head  on  her  knees,  and  tell  her  every- 
thing. Then  she  would  stroke  my  eyes 
and  bid  me  see  reason,  and  all  would 
be  well.  O  my  little  mother,  O  great 
and  dear  one,  why  did  you  leave  your 
child? 

I  remembered  just  now  that  it  used  to 
help  me  once  to  write  things  down.  That 


1 74         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

is  what  I  must  do.  I  will  put  it  away 
from  me;  perhaps,  too,  it  will  look  so 
silly  in  solemn  ink  that  I  shall  laugh  at  it 
instead  of  screaming,  as  I  did  just  now 
with  my  face  on  the  pillow.  And  now 
that  it  comes  to  the  point,  I  am  ashamed 
of  saying  it.  My  love  is  making  me 
mad ;  was  there  ever  such  a  fool  ?  I  have 
been  too  happy,  that  is  the  whole  truth 
—  far  too  happy.  Poor  things,  we  carry 
grief  well  enough,  cold  grief;  but  hot  joy 
cracks  the  frail  vessel. 

I  have  had  a  wonderful  spring,  with 
my  two  dearests;  Constance  sweeter  than 
ever  she  was,  even  during  her  long  illness 
giving  some  worth  to  the  hours  I  might 
not  spend  with  him,  and  he  ever  near. 
Then,  when  we  three  were  together,  we 
were  happy,  too.  How  silly  of  me  to 
write  "were";  they  are  still  there,  the 
summer  days  are  long,  I  love  them  so 
well,  they  hold  me  so  dear. 


Journal.  175 

I  have  not  written  it.  No  matter,  I 
feel  better;  I  already  begin  to  laugh  at 
myself. 

June  4th.  —  Their  eyes  met  once  at 
supper,  only  once,  and  they  did  not  look 
at  each  other  when  they  said  good  night. 
Which  means  most,  to  look  or  not  to 
look?  I  cannot  read  clearly  yet.  And 
one  can  certainly  twice  ask  the  same  per- 
son to  pass  the  salt  without  its  mean- 
ing anything.  This  is  very  ugly  in  me; 
my  better  self  is  filled  with  sorrow.  Surely 
it  must  be  in  every  one's  power  to  quell 
the  visions  of  the  inmost  eye  when  they 
rise  sinfully,  to  close  their  ears  against 
such  whisperings  as  now  I  listen  to. 

I  must  fight  this.  Doubt  is  Love's 
murderer. 

June  6th.  —  Constance  should  not  have 
said  that;  there  was  no  need.  Why  have 
I  come  upstairs  and  left  them  together? 
I  am  raving  mad.  And  now  to  cry  like 


176         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

a  baby !  I  have  cried  every  day  for  five 
days;  this  is  monstrous!  I  think  that  if 
some  one  came  and  whipped  me,  I  might 
feel  better.  This  is  some  sickness,  surely ; 
relaxed  nerves,  quick  blood.  I  shall 
write  it  all  down  carefully,  calling  on 
what  sense  I  have  left  to  be  judge.  Of 
course  the  judge  will  laugh.  But  first  I 
will  wash  my  face. 

In  the  beginning,  Constance  said  she 
was  not  sure  she  liked  him.  Let  me  re- 
member his  first  words  about  her,  the 
day  after  her  arrival.  I  brought  him  into 
the  drawing-room,  and  put  his  hand  into 
hers,  saying,  "Here  is  your  friend." 

He  was  very  shy,  and  hardly  looked  at 
her.  "We  are  meeting  under  inauspi- 
cious circumstances,  Mrs.  Norris,"  said 
he.  "  We  have  heard  so  much  about  each 
other  that  I,  at  least,  cannot  reconcile  the 
strangeness  of  your  person  with  the  inti- 
mate affection  I  have  so  long  had  for 
you  in  my  thoughts." 


Journal.  1 77 

Constance  laughed. 

" It  is  funny,  isn't  it?"  said  she.  "I 
know  what  you  mean.  I  thought  I  knew 
you  quite  well,  and  you're  not  at  all  the 
sort  of  person  I  thought  you  were." 

Gabriel  did  not  stay  long;  I  went  with 
him  to  the  door  when  he  left,  and  he 
said: 

"She  is  prettier  than  her  photograph. 
I  like  her,  Emilia."  I  was  so  glad. 

Constance  soon  began  to  take  an  inter- 
est in  him;  he  amused  her. 

"He  is  the  queerest  creature  I  ever 
saw,"  she  said;  "I  can't  set  eyes  on  him 
without  laughing;  he  is  too  comic." 

Then  she  fell  ill,  poor  love !  They  did 
not  meet  for  a  long  time.  And  every 
day,  when  Gabriel  came  to  fetch  me  for 
my  walk,  he  only  asked  after  her  as  he 
should  have  asked  after  my  dearest  friend. 
Of  course,  when  she  got  better  and  he  sat 
with  us  daily  to  help  me  to  amuse  her, 


1 78         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

they  were  thrown  more  together.  It  was 
a  great  joy  to  me  to  see  how  well  they 
got  on. 

Then  she  began  to  tease  him.  They 
never  talked  very  much,  for  all  that. 
When  I  come  to  think  of  it,  it  was  early 
last  month  that  Constance  began  to  say, 
"How  is  your  friend  this  morning?"  or 
"I  haven't  seen  Gabriel  for  two  days;  I 
miss  him;  he  makes  me  laugh."  But  I 
did  not  notice  it  then. 

What?  Is  this  all  I  have  to  say?  It 
is  too  ridiculous!  Of  course  she  likes 
him  ;  one  cannot  come  near  him  without 
some  love.  Besides,  she  would  like  him 
for  my  sake.  It  is  all  so  natural.  He, 
too,  did  not  often  speak  of  her,  does  not 
often  speak  of  her.  It  is  natural,  know- 
ing how  I  love  her,  that  he  should  feel  at 
ease  with  my  Constance.  Nor  could  I 
have  wished  it  to  be  otherwise. 

Now  let  me  think  when  I  was  first  taken 


Journal.  1 79 

with  this  mad  fit.  It  was  last  Thursday 
week;  we  were  all  three  in  the  wood;  it 
was  one  of  my  bad  days,  when  I  love  him 
unto  pain;  it  hurt  me  that  he  lagged  be- 
hind, I  wanted  him  near.  And  I  twice 
saw  Constance  turn  to  look  after  him;  I 
turned,  too, —  they  smiled  at  each  other. 
When  he  drew  up,  the  path  was  wider;  it 
was  the  first  time,  I  think,  that  instead  of 
coming  to  my  side,  or  placing  himself 
between  us,  he  went  round  to  Constance. 

I  noticed  it,  I  felt  it;  there  spread  a 
quick  pain  through  my  whole  being.  It 
was  silly,  perhaps,  but  I  walked  round 
behind  him,  and  slipped  my  hand  through 
his  arm. 

"Are  you  tired,  my  Emilia?"  he 
asked;  but  I  answered: 

"No,  dear;  I  only  wanted  to  take  your 
arm." 

And  I  said  to  myself,  "  I  am  very  glad 
that  he  is  mine,  and  not  another  woman's. " 


1 80         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  never  remember  having  understood 
hatred  as  I  did  at  that  moment;  the  pos- 
sibility of  his  growing  to  love  Constance 
had  not  yet  occurred  to  me,  only  the 
thought  that  he  might  some  day  love  an- 
other woman  better  than  me.  And  it 
dawned  upon  me  thus  suddenly  that  I 
was  jealous. 

And  now,  what  does  the  judge  think? 
No  evidence,  of  course  not;  they  are  both 
as  true  as  gold,  they  both  love  me  dearly, 
they  would  not  dream  of  a  flirtation,  — 
pah!  the  word  sickens  me,  it  is  not  fit. 
And  there  am  I  in  my  folly  leaving  them 
together,  whilst  I  give  way  to  ugly  doubts, 
and  tear  myself  by  an  ugly  passion. 

I  had  better  go  down  again.  This 
doubt  of  them  is  hateful  in  me. 

June  loth.  —  I  must  be  very  jealous 
indeed.  This  is  very  strange.  I 
dreamed  last  night  that  we  were  in  a 
room  full  of  people,  we  three.  I  was 


Journal.  1 8 1 

seeking  him,  and  he  came  towards  me 
suddenly  with  Constance  on  his  arm. 
Lifting  her  on  high,  I  threw  her  far  from 
us,  so  that  with  a  cry  she  sank  into  great 
depths;  and  Gabriel  —  seeking  to  stay  me 
—  caught  me  by  the  waist.  I  heard  the 
whirl  and  the  hum  of  those  about  us,  but 
in  the  weakness  of  my  love  I  fell  with  my 
head  upon  his  breast,  and  thus  we  floated 
into  endless  space. 

I  am  a  sensible  person  as  a  rule,  yet 
the  flavour  of  this  dream  has  been  with 
me  all  day  long,  and  I  could  hardly  look 
at  Constance  for  the  wrong  I  had  done 
her  in  my  thoughts.  I  must  be  very 
jealous. 

June  i8th.  —  I  put  it  from  me  for  a 
while.  I  have  been  very  calm;  I  have 
watched  them  narrowly.  I  am  very  calm 
now.  Gabriel  came  to  spend  the  even- 
ing; Uncle  George  had  been  provided 
for  Mrs.  Rayner's  edification,  and  we  all 


1 82         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

sat  together  in  the  drawing-room.  Grand- 
mamma and  Aunt  Caroline  had  Constance 
between  them  under  the  lamp.  I  could 
watch  her  very  well.  Gabriel  sat  next 
me.  We  could  not  talk,  so  I  thought  we 
might  as  well  play  backgammon,  and  we 
set  the  board  so  that  he  could  not  see 
Constance. 

When  Gabriel  left,  I  took  him  as  far 
as  the  blue  door,  first  making  a  round  of 
the  garden  and  shrubbery;  it  was  a  dear 
walk.  He  said,  "  Shall  we  make  a  match 
of  it,  Emilia,  between  your  perfumed 
uncle  and  that  benighted  woman?"  It 
certainly  was  an  excellent  idea.  Towards 
the  end  he  said : 

"Emilia,  you  have  been  rather  pale 
these  last  days.  Take  care  of  my  girl, 
my  dear  girl.  And  your  step  is  not  over 
firm;  you  cling  to  me  as  you  walk." 

Why,  yes,  that  was  true  enough;  I  was 
clinging  to  him  with  all  my  force. 


Journal.  183 

Gabriel  is  older  than  he  was;  he  would 
never  have  noticed  this  when  first  I  knew 
him,  not  even  when  first  he  loved  me. 
He  has  grown  much  more  thoughtful  of 
late. 

All  this  holds  together.  I  am  perfectly 
calm;  I  am  not  deceiving  myself.  I  am 
calm  because  I  see  the  need  of  self-pos- 
session and  reflection.  Gabriel  and  Con- 
stance, —  it  seems  horrible  to  set  it  down 
thus  before  my  poor  eyes,  —  they  love  one 
another. 

And  now  let  me  be  very  careful,  very 
just  and  true.  They  love  each  other,  but 
they  do  not  know  it.  I  know  it,  because 
my  great  love  has  so  trained  my  eye  that 
they  cannot  deceive  me;  neither  he  nor 
she;  themselves,  perhaps,  but  me  never. 

I  do  not  say  that  it  is  dangerous  love, 
lasting  love;  these  passing  fancies  die 
their  own  death,  and  therefore  I  think  I 
shall  not  disturb  them;  if  I  part  them, 


1 84         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

the  shock  might  awaken  them  to  the  truth. 
No;  I  will  let  their  fancy  run  its  own 
course,  trusting  that  it  may  die  before 
they  become  aware  of  its  existence. 

That  is  it;  they  do  not  know  it  yet,  it 
is  an  unconscious  attraction.  He  loves 
me  so  firmly,  he  would  never  dream  of 
infidelity  to  me;  yet,  just  at  present,  he  is 
unfaithful  in  thought  and  does  not  know 
it.  Poor  dear,  if  he  knew,  how  misera- 
ble he  would  be,  how  he  would  hate  him- 
self! And  Constance,  too.  This  is  a 
cruel  thing,  but  I  think  I  can  bear  it;  it 
must  pass  because  they  love  me  so  much. 
It  rests  with  me;  I  must  be  very  wise. 
They  are  as  sleep-walkers;  I  must  lead 
them  from  danger,  patiently,  tenderly. 
I  think  I  can  keep  calm. 

June  2 1st.  —  It  comes  to  me  almost  as 
a  miracle  what  one  can  bear.  It  seems 
that  a  certainty,  however  terrible,  hurts 
less  cruelly  than  doubt.  I  suffered  most 


Journal.  185 

at  the  dawning  of  my  fears.  Now  that  I 
know  the  worst,  I  can  strain  my  endur- 
ance to  the  requisite  point.  Besides,  it 
cannot  last.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the 
more  natural  it  seems  to  me  that  they 
should  thus  forget  themselves,  for  a 
while;  have  I  not  myself  been  foolish 
over  both?  The  fault,  too,  is  mine;  I 
brought  them  together;  they  are  not  to 
blame. 

Some  day  I  shall  laugh  at  all  this;  and 
it  is  really  endurable,  even  now.  The 
thing  is  to  brace  oneself  sufficiently,  to 
the  exact  point.  It  seems  to  me  I  keep 
saying  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again;  but  it  is  so  necessary  to  keep  it 
in  mind. 

June  25th.  —  Gabriel  is  not  well.  I 
noticed  it  a  day  or  two  ago.  This  after- 
noon he  came  to  fetch  Constance  and  me 
for  a  walk;  it  had  been  so  warm  that  we 
thought  we  would  walk  after  tea.  And 


1 86         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

instead  of  walking,  we  stayed  in  the  gar- 
den. Mrs.  Rayner  —  thank  mercy !  — 
was  out  driving  with  grandmamma  and 
Uncle  George. 

We  stayed  in  the  garden,  and  idled 
through  the  hours;  we  each  had  a  book, 
but  I  doubt  that  we  read  a  dozen  pages 
between  us.  Nor  did  we  talk  much; 
every  now  and  then  we  fell  to  talking, 
but  the  pauses  had  the  best  of  it. 

Gabriel  looked  very  tired;  I  spread  a 
rug  out  on  the  grass,  and  he  fell  asleep 
with  his  head  on  my  knees.  My  pretty 
Constance  said  to  me,  "  You  will  be  tired, 
you  have  nothing  to  lean  against,"  and 
she  brought  her  chair  up  behind  me  so 
that  I  might  lean  against  her.  She  is 
very  sweet,  my  Constance.  She  put  her 
head  down  next  to  mine,  and  we  spoke 
in  whispers,  mostly  of  him.  She  has  no 
suspicion  that  she  loves  him  more  than 
need  be.  But  it  came  into  my  head  then, 


Journal.  187 

looking  down  at  Gabriel's  pale  face,  and 
remembering  how  he  had  said  he  could 
not  sleep  of  nights,  that  perhaps  he  knows 
he  loves  her. 

I  must  watch  them  more  closely.  To- 
morrow I  am  going  to  the  Cottage.  I 
fear  my  visits  there  a  little.  Jane  is  very 
fond  of  me;  it  is  difficult  to  hide  from 
her  that,  just  at  present,  I  am  not  so 
happy  as  I  was.  Gabriel  and  Constance 
would,  of  course,  notice  it  also,  but  they 
are  not  quite  themselves. 

June  2jth.  —  I  think  I  feel  as  men 
must  who  die  of  thirst  adrift  in  mid- 
ocean.  There  is  nothing  in  creation  I 
could  not  tell  Gabriel  and  Constance  be- 
tween them,  yet  I  must  now  bear  the  bur- 
den of  a  secret  I  can  share  with  neither. 
Some  day,  of  course,  we  shall  speak  of  it 
and  laugh.  Perhaps  not.  My  only  fear 
now  is  that  perhaps  I  might  go  mad,  that 
perhaps  I  am  mad,  that  all  this  is  a  decep- 


1 88         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

tion,  the  outcome  of  my  poor  brain.  I 
don't  know  what  to  think. 

I  found  Gabriel  on  the  Common  just 
before  I  reached  the  Cottage.  I  thought 
he  was  writing;  he  was  lying  at  full  length 
on  the  heather.  I  stood  still  within  a  few 
yards  of  him,  and  presently  he  looked  up, 
his  dear  face  flushed. 

"  Emilia !  "  he  cried,  "  I  want  you  more 
than  ever  I  did !  Sit  here  by  me." 

And  when  I  had  sat  down  a  little  way 
from  him,  away  from  him  just  because  I 
so  longed  to  sit  next,  he  drew  himself  up 
to  me  and  took  my  glad  hand. 

I  asked  him  what  was  amiss,  saying  I 
did  not  like  his  looks  and  nervous  ways. 

"Where  are  your  gay  spirits?"  said 
I;  "I  hardly  know  my  child,  he  has  grown 
so  sober." 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  "I  hardly  know 
myself.  I  think  I  am  not  well.  The 
poem  is  dead, —  not  a  throb  of  the  pulse. 
Emilia !  you  must  cure  me ! " 


Journal.  189 

"Dear,"  said  I,  "how  shall  that  be?" 

"Take  me  away!  I  am  weary  of  all 
things.  The  summer  is  fledged  ;  he  will 
take  wing  before  we  realise  it.  You  must 
marry  me  soon,  very  soon." 

And  I  promised  that  I  would,  — on  the 
1 5th  of  July,  as  we  presently  decided. 

Surely,  if  I  were  not  mad,  I  should  be 
very  joyful.  I  feel  no  joy,  only  disbelief; 
I  cannot  believe,  sore  as  I  am  with  doubt 
and  sorrow,  that  in  nineteen  days  all  will 
be  well,  and  I  again  full  mistress  of  that 
I  fear  to  lose.  Just  at  first,  I  was  dizzy 
with  joy,  and  thought  my  misgivings  had 
been  very  vain  and  foolish;  but  then  it 
occurred  to  me  that  Gabriel  was  perhaps 
impelled  to  this  sudden  decision  by  the 
dawning  consciousness  of  his  infidelity, 
and  hoped  —  by  marrying  me  at  once  — 
to  check  the  further  growth  of  his  fancy. 

If  this  be  so,  he  is  wise  ;  for  that  it  is 
a  passing  fancy  I  am  certain.  I  should 
not  marry  him  if  I  thought  otherwise. 


190         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

But  it  is  very  sad;  I  am  so  sorry  for 
us  all. 

June  30th.  —  It  must  be  late  ;  the 
chimes  have  just  told  three  quarters,  it 
must  be  a  quarter  to  three.  I  was  in 
bed,  —  I  am  very  much  troubled.  I  think 
I  had  better  write  a  little,  lest  I  lose  my 
self-possession;  that  would  be  fatal. 
Constance  and  I  returned  to-day  from 
London;  we  had  been  there  to  get  my 
things.  I  took  her  with  me  because  I 
feared  to  leave  her  alone  with  Gabriel ;  it 
seemed  unwise.  Besides,  I  could  not 
leave  them;  I  am  indeed  intolerably  jeal- 
ous; I  never  leave  them  now  for  the  frac- 
tion of  a  minute.  I  cannot,  it  is  too 
cruel  pain ;  and  I  am  grown  such  a 
coward,  I  cannot  bear  it. 

Yet  it  was  foolish  to  take  her  with  me  ; 
I  might  have  foretold  how  it  would  be.  I 
saw  very  soon  that  she  pined  for  him, 
perhaps  as  much  as  I  did.  And  I  knew 


Journal.  191 

that  he  wandered  to  and  fro  at  home, 
meeting  her  thoughts  with  his.  I  brought 
her  back  as  soon  as  I  could.  Gabriel 
met  us  at  the  station;  the  engine  shrieked, 
as  I  did  in  my  heart.  It  was  a  strange 
mingling  of  the  Heaven  of  my  life  with 
the  sordid  greyness  of  the  world.  I  saw 
at  once  that  there  was  a  change;  I  had 
parted  them  and  taught  them  what  each 
was  worth  to  the  other. 

So  now  I  know.  It  is  well,  perhaps, 
to  have  reached  the  end,  the  limit  of 
misery,  to  know  that,  come  what  may,  I 
have  suffered  my  fill.  And  I  was  so 
happy.  I  cannot  think  to-night;  I  know 
not  what  to  do;  I  stare  at  my  dead  joy,  — 
it  is  dead  and  cold,  nothing  can  wake  it 
now.  When  I  have  stared  a  little  longer, 
I  must  dig  its  grave,  bury  it  in  the  bare 
earth,  in  eternal  darkness. 

That  is  all  I  feel,  the  death  of  my  joy; 
I  cannot  yet  think  of  them  that  killed  it. 


1 92         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

To-night  in  my  despair  I  cannot  tell 
whether  I  love  or  hate  them;  love  them 
for  what  they  were,  or  hate  them  for  what 
they  are. 

July  2d.  — The  day  is  hot  and  heavy; 
it  suits  me  very  well.  Yesterday  we  were 
nearly  all  day  together.  I  remember  how 
it  was  with  me  when  my  mother  died;  I 
had  sooner  bear  it  again  than  my  pain  of 
every  day.  To  be  with  them,  watching 
the  growth  of  their  terrible  love,  that  is 
murdering  me,  and  yet  to  stay  on,  fearing 
a  worse  agony.  Their  eyes  shall  never 
meet ;  I  shall  stay  and  watch  them,  if  I 
die  for  it. 

Only  thirteen  days  more  and  he  is  mine, 
and  I  can  bear  him  from  her.  Yesterday 
I  thought,  Shall  I  give  him  to  her?  But 
I  am  not  generous.  It  may  be  wicked,  it 
may  be  cruel,  but  I,  too,  am  living.  Why 
should  I  break  my  heart  that  theirs  may 
be  whole?  No  ;  he  chose  me  for  his  wife, 


Journal.  193 

he  will  not  take  his  word  from  me.  I 
know  he  loves  her  better,  but  he  will  forget 
that,  I  shall  make  him  so  happy,  I  shall 
spoil  him  so!  Oh,  yes,  he  will  forget. 
For  a  year,  perhaps,  he  will  be  unhappy; 
then  all  will  be  well. 

It  might  be  different  if  I  did  not  know 
how  happy  I  can  make  him. 

July  ^d.  —  Let  me  write  it  down,  all  my 
infamy.  I  am  possessed  by  a  new  fear, 
—  that  Gabriel  might  prove  honest.  It 
is  not  true  that  trouble  chasteneth;  there 
is  no  health  left  in  me.  If  I  clear  all  the 
cobwebs  away,  I  still  can  see  the  right.  I 
can  see  this :  that  he  loves  her  better  than 
me,  and  I  remember  our  covenant. 

I  know  that  it  is  my  duty  to  go  to  him 
and  lay  his  freedom  in  his  hands;  or, 
barring  this,  to  await  the  truth  from  his 
own  lips.  Yet  now,  when  I  am  alone  with 
him,  I  am  possessed  by  this  terrible  new 
fear,  that  he  might  be  true  to  his  own  self 


194         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

and  me.  For  to  marry  one  woman  and 
love  another  is  a  shameful  act  indeed. 

Let  me  look  upon  my  love  and  ask 
myself  whereof  it  is  made.  If  I  seek  to 
have  this  man,  knowing  his  heart  to  be 
another's,  if  I  desire  for  him  rather  the 
silence  of  cowardice  than  the  nobler 
loyalty  of  truth,  why,  then,  my  love  is  not 
good  love.  It  is  not  love,  but  a  most 
unholy  passion,  that  places  its  desire 
above  the  well-being  of  its  object.  And 
yet  I  can  see  the  right. 

Oh !  how  empty  are  these  dreams,  and 
how  the  devil  in  us,  the  man  of  flesh, 
mocks  the  God-led  spirit  that  dreamed 
them! 

The  blood  of  the  heart  is  master.  We 
shall  never  reach  perfection. 

July  4th.  —  They  have  not  met  to-day. 
I  was  at  the  Cottage,  and  we  made  merry 
as  best  we  could.  Gabriel  laughed.  But 
when  I  went  into  the  larder  to  fetch  the 


Journal.  195 

bread  for  tea,  I  stayed  and  cried;  for  he 
had  laughed  otherwise  the  first  day  I  came. 

Oh,  what  have  we  done,  we  two !  We 
set  up  Truth  as  our  God,  believing  that 
we  should  right  all  the  wrongs  of  the 
world  by  living  clean  of  heart  and  hand 
and  tongue.  Where  are  we  now?  False- 
hood lies  thick  upon  us,  blackening  each 
word,  each  trifling  action.  Yes,  I  went 
and  cried  in  the  larder,  and  when  I  got 
back  to  the  kitchen  Gabriel  was  playing 
with  the  kittens,  a  very  imp  as  of  old. 
We  laughed,  both  of  us. 

But  later,  when  I  came  upon  him 
unawares,  he  sat  with  head  bowed  low, 
and  his  white  hands  clasped  on  his  knee. 
I  closed  the  door  softly  and  went  home. 
It  rained  a  little. 

I  knew,  I  know  that  I  am  cruel,  yet,  — 
only  one  life,  —  and  I  love  him  so !  Only 
one  life,  and  he  loves  her  so.  The  road 
is  dark;  I  cannot  find  my  way. 


196          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

July  6th.  —  I  have  been  very  sinful.  I 
was  worse  yesterday,  if  can  be,  than 
before;  more  blind,  unjust,  and  selfish. 
Gabriel  came  to  supper;  it  had  been  a 
hot  day,  and  in  the  evening  we  walked 
together,  we  three. 

We  watched  the  colours  fade  from  the 
sky  and  the  blue  night  deepen;  the 
little  stars  came  one  by  one.  The  wind 
rose,  soft  and  cool,  and  there  we  stood, 
we  three,  under  broad  Heaven.  I  fell  back 
a  little,  and  they  went  on  side  by  side, 
silent  and  still.  Not  a  word,  not  a  sign, 
but  I  knew,  I,  what  peace  was  upon  them, 
soothing  the  turmoil  of  their  blood. 
There  they  stood  against  the  sky, —  how  I 
had  watched  them,  how  I  knew  them, — 
oh,  my  heart,  how  I  loved  them !  And  it 
came  to  me  suddenly  how  hatefully  I  had 
been  loving  them. 

Two  women  passed  us  on  the  road; 
they  spoke  of  their  dead,  and  one  of 
them  said,  "It  is  God's  will." 


Journal.  197 

I  stood  still  and  laughed  aloud,  so  that 
my  dears  turned,  wondering.  But  I  have 
repeated  it  to  myself  ever  since.  The 
woman  spoke  the  truth.  For,  God  or  no 
God,  there  is  a  Might  against  which  we 
cannot  stand,  and  woe  be  unto  those  that 
lift  their  little  wills  against  the  will  of 
Nature.  When  two  love,  they  must  belong 
to  each  other;  when  one  loves,  Miserere. 

I  will  wait  a  day  or  two,  until  I  have 
learned  my  lesson  well,  until  I  am  strong; 
then  I  will  do  what  must  be  done.  But  I 
must  first  be  strong,  test  my  strength  to 
the  uttermost,  and  tell  myself  every  day, 
"She  will  be  his;  she  will  take  the  joy 
that  shone  into  your  eyes;  you  will  have 
nothing,  nothing." 

Then  I  must  try  to  realise  that  thought 
and  bear  it  nobly;  for  to  make  a  sacrifice 
and  bear  it  ill  is  beneath  contempt. 

July  gth.  —  How  beautiful  love  is ! 
Now  that,  one  by  one,  I  am  breaking  the 


198         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

tendrils  from  the  wall,  and  shall  soon  hold 
Love  in  my  hand,  an  emblem  merely, 
clinging  to  nothing,  I  see  all  that  is 
divine  in  it.  I  myself  am  selfish,  earth- 
smeared;  yet  by  means  of  this  talisman  I 
am  to  be  heroic,  even  I,  finding  joy  in 
the  gift  I  prepare  for  others  through  the 
tearing  of  my  heart,  the  outpouring  of  my 
own  blood.  It  is  a  blessed  madness. 
Sober,  I  could  not. 

To-day  one  week  remains.  Gabriel 
said  to  me  just  now,  "  In  a  week,  Emilia, 
we  shall  be  gone." 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  I;  and  I  wondered 
at  his  strength,  at  his  loyalty  to  me. 

How  comes  it,  I  wonder,  that  it  took 
me  so  long  to  find  the  small  straight  path. 
I  must  hasten  now  and  be  ready  soon;  he 
has  suffered  all  too  long.  And  Constance 
is  thin,  her  eyes  hang  heavily,  she  helps 
me  prepare  my  wedding  clothes,  and  is 
gay,  to  hide  what  she  cannot.  She  often 
says: 


Journal.  199 

"How  slow  you  are!  Hurry  up,  my 
solemn  bride,  or  we  shall  never  be 
ready." 

"Ready  enough,"  say  I. 

To-day  I  went  to  Mrs.  Rayner,  and 
begged  her  to  approach  her  solicitor  on 
the  question  of  obtaining  Constance's 
divorce.  My  ignorance  of  these  matters 
is  absolute,  yet  surely  this  is  possible. 
Gabriel  once  led  me  to  believe  she  could 
obtain  her  divorce  without  difficulty. 

"But  a  divorce  is  so  scandalous,"  said 
Mrs.  Rayner. 

"Not  so  scandalous,"  I  replied,  "as 
what  it  may  prevent." 

I  believe  my  words  were  entirely  thrown 
away,  for  her  blindness  is  phenomenal. 
She  is,  besides,  much  too  self-absorbed  at 
present  to  properly  watch  Constance :  her 
horizon  is  obscured  by  Uncle  George's 
whiskers.  It  gives  me,  even  in  these 
days,  a  grim  satisfaction  to  see  those  two 


20O         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

preparing  millstones  for  each  other's 
necks. 

I  shall  write  to  Marianna,  telling  her  to 
expect  me  in  Florence  shortly.  How 
calm  I  am!  Have  I  learned  my  lesson 
so  well?  Or  is  this  calm  mere  self- 
deceit?  When  I  have  truly  learned  the 
lesson,  realise  that  what  I  am  about  to  do 
separates  me  from  both  forever,  surely  I 
shall  not  be  alive  to  go  to  Florence. 

July  loth.  —  To-day  Constance  would 
not  come  to  the  Cottage  with  me,  although 
Jane  Norton  had  most  particularly  wished 
it.  I  think  she  avoids  Gabriel,—  it  may 
be  my  fancy,  or  perhaps  mere  chance; 
otherwise  it  still  seems  to  me  that  she 
does  not  know  she  loves  him. 

She  came  up  to  me  in  the  morning,  to 
help  me  pack  my  papers;  we  idled,  we 
wandered  restlessly  about  my  disordered 
room.  Suddenly  she  came  to  me  as  I 
leaned  over  my  strong-box,  and,  clasping 


Journal.  201 

me  round  the  shoulders,  laid  her  head 
down  on  the  back  of  my  neck. 

"Dear,"  she  said,  "do  you  remember 
your  birthday  at  Florence,  when  I  helped 
you  with  your  books?  " 

I  stood  up  and  took  her  to  me. 

"Yes,"  said  I;  "and  I  would  that  day 
were  back  again." 

She  gave  a  sigh,  a  little  shiver.  I  felt 
it.  But  she  said : 

"Silly,  big  thing,  how  can  you  talk  so? 
You  are  going  to  be  so  happy !  " 

"Why,  yes,"  I  replied;  "that's  true." 

Poor  little  Constance !  To-day  I  may 
say  it,  to-day  she  is  still  the  poorer.  Soon 
'twill  be  poor  Emilia. 

July  nth. — To-day  they  met  again. 
I  am  not  schooled,  I  have  not  learned  my 
lesson,  and  now  I  know  that  I  shall  never 
learn  it.  We  were  out  together;  again  I 
let  them  walk  ahead,  and  kept  far  behind 
them,  saying  to  myself :  "  This  is  my  life !  " 


2O2         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

But  it  was  unendurable.  I  rejoined  them, 
and  slipped  in  between  them;  I  cannot 
yet  look  upon  them  side  by  side,  neither 
actually  nor  in  my  imagination. 

This  does  not  mean  that  I  shall  not 
abide  by  my  decision.  Only  three  days 
more;  I  must  hasten.  Yet  these  are  the 
last  days  I  have  to  live ;  mingled  with  my 
pain  is  the  last  drop  of  joy  I  may  taste 
upon  this  earth.  And  yet,  having  their 
love,  I  dare  not  think  of  death. 

It  dawned  upon  me  to-day  that  Con- 
stance knows;  she  is  pale,  and  much 
troubled.  Poor  little  one. 

July  1 2th.  — To-morrow  it  must  be.  I 
meant  to  tell  him  to-night,  but  I  could 
not. 

It  is  half-past  ten.  Aunt  Caroline  has 
just  been  to  my  room,  bless  her !  I  thought 
she  was  in  bed. 

"  Have  you  room  for  this  in  your  trunk, 
Milly?  "  she  said.  "  I  should  like  you  to 


Journal.  203 

hang  it  up  in  your  room  wherever  you 
go." 

It  was  a  text  she  had  painted  for  me. 
Written  in  gold  among  sprays  of  lilies-of- 
the-valley  shone  "God  is  Love."  Poor 
soul!  she  ought  to  know. 

Yes,  to-morrow  I  shall  tell  him.  I 
should  have  told  him  to-night.  I  stayed 
at  the  Cottage  until  late;  after  supper  he 
brought  me  home.  We  were  very  silent. 
I  kept  on  trying  to  begin,  wondering  how 
to  say  it,  and  he  had  something,  no 
doubt,  in  his  thoughts.  I  knew  all  the 
while  that  it  was  our  last  walk  across  the 
heath  together;  perhaps  I  wanted  to  keep 
it  entirely  my  own.  I  walked  a  step  or 
two  behind  him,  so  that  my  eyes  might 
gaze  their  fill,  and  he  did  not  seem  to  feel 
my  watching.  I  wanted  to  print  his  form 
forever  in  my  memory. 

We  were  in  sight  of  the  blue  gate;  we 
had  not  spoken  for  half-a-mile,  and  had 


2O4         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

fallen  very  far  apart.  I  turned  suddenly 
giddy,  and  spread  my  hands  towards  him, 
crying : 

"Gabriel!  Gabriel!" 

He  was  very  kind  to  me;  he  turned 
back  and  put  his  arm  about  my  waist,  and 
we  went  on  more  slowly  still,  as  silent  as 
before.  But,  all  the  while,  something 
within  me  said:  "Do  you  know  where 
you  are  ?  Do  you  know  who  holds  you  ? 
In  a  few  weeks,  oh!  in  one  hour,  you 
would  sell  your  soul  for  one  of  these 
seconds." 

Yet  I  could  not  feel;  it  seems  to  me 
now  that  I  did  not  feel. 

Within  a  few  yards  of  the  blue  door  we 
stood  still.  I  said : 

"Come  no  further,  Gabriel." 

But  I  held  his  hand  to  my  side;  I  knew 
that  I  might  never  do  so  again.  We  stood 
thus  a  few  seconds,  then  I  turned  my  face 
up  suddenly,  and  he  kissed  me  on  the 
eyes.  And  then  he  left  me. 


Journal.  205 

Why  do  I  write  this?  It  is  merely  as 
a  picture  before  me.  I  feel  very  little 
now;  I  am  so  cold. 

And  now  he  walks  home  across  the 
heath.  Good  night,  Gabriel.  Why  did 
he  kiss  my  eyes?  It  was  better  the  first 
time. 

All  past,  all  gone,  all  dead.  I  cannot 
see  that  I  need  live  in  this  graveyard. 

Perhaps  I  too  shall  die;  who  knows? 


THE   POSTSCRIPT. 


THE  POSTSCRIPT. 

THERE  was  a  man  who  made  unto  him- 
self wings,  and  thought  to  soar  upon 
them;  but,  as  he  rose  into  high  Heaven, 
the  Sun  melted  the  wax  wherewith  he  had 
fastened  the  pinions  on  to  his  body,  and 
the  poor  fool,  sinking  to  earth,  was 
drowned  in  deep  waters. 

Now,  as  Icarus  fell  into  the  sea,  what 
lesson  would  have  risen  from  his  heart 
unto  the  sons  of  men? 

This? 

"Children  of  earth,  the  earthworm 
crawls  in  its  blindness;  be  content,  for 
ye  are  such." 

Or  this? 

"Make  wings  unto  yourselves  and  fly! 
My  wings  were  strong,  and  should  have 
209  p 


2IO         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

borne  me  further;  I  fall  and  die,  yet  I 
have  seen  the  Sun." 

I  know  not.  Nor  know  I  how  to  read 
the  lesson  of  my  own  life.  I,  too,  can 
only  say,  "My  wings  were  strong,  and 
should  have  borne  me  further." 

I  shall  not  burn  my  letters  and  my  jour- 
nal, as  I  meant  to  do.  Here  they  lie  in 
my  lap;  I  meant  to  burn  them  to-night. 
But  now,  after  reading  them  through,  I 
think  that  I  shall  tie  them  together  and 
lay  them  by,  adding  a  record  of  that 
which  came  to  pass. 

When  I  am  dead,  some  human  being 
may  read  my  words,  some  other  pilgrim 
on  the  narrow  way,  seeing  where  I  faltered 
and  fell,  may  be  able  to  step  onward  with 
the  greater  firmness.  And  yet,  I  doubt 
it;  there  were  no  need  to  weep  over  our 
faults,  might  they  but  save  another's  tears. 
Man  learns  all  truth  through  his  own  pain. 


Postscript.  211 

I  married  him.     It  was  a  great  sin. 

It  would  be  easier  to  sit  in  judgment 
on  oneself,  did  straight  and  simple  pur- 
pose lead  to  a  single  act.  My  purpose 
was  clear  enough;  I  meant  to  give  him 
his  liberty,  I  knew  that  it  was  my  duty  to 
do  so,  but  the  blood  of  the  heart  was 
master. 

Had  I  been  physically  strong  at  the 
time,  had  not  many  weeks  of  doubt  and 
misery  affected  me  bodily  as  well  as 
mentally,  I  might  perhaps  have  had  the 
strength  to  fulfil  my  intentions.  I  say 
perhaps;  we  cannot  tell  what  might  have 
been.  And  it  is  particularly  in  such 
cases  as  mine,  when  body  and  spirit  are 
alike  affected,  that  we  are  the  most  easily 
thrown  out  of  balance  by"  unforeseen 
influences,  by  some  sudden  wave  of  feel- 
ing, by  the  mood  of  another,  by  the  inter- 
ference of  time  and  place. 

The  day  after  I  made  the  last  entry  in 


212         The  Wings  of  Icarus, 

my  journal,  I  did  not  see  Gabriel  until 
the  evening.  Constance  had  a  headache, 
my  poor  sweet,  and  wished  to  be  alone ; 
so  I,  too,  was  alone  nearly  all  day.  And 
all  day  long  I  rehearsed  the  scene  to 
come,  gathering  all  my  strength  together, 
telling  him  in  my  imagination  what  I  had 
to  tell,  in  twenty  different  ways.  When 
evening  came,  my  heart  was  dead.  I  felt 
absolutely  nothing.  I  remember  singing 
as  I  made  myself  tidy  for  supper,  and 
being  so  offended  with  myself  for  doing 
so  that  I  left  off,  in  order  to  simulate,  at 
least,  a  depression  I  no  longer  felt. 

Gabriel  supped  with  us,  and  we  were 
exceedingly  merry;  not  that  I  was  neces- 
sarily merry,  not  being  sad, —  indeed,  I 
was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  but  my 
heart  was  dead,  and  I  let  my  body  do  as 
it  would.  I  remember  looking  hard  at 
Gabriel  once,  and  saying  to  myself,  "  After 
all,  he  will  admire  me  for  this  much  more 


Postscript.  213 

than  I  deserve;  after  all,  I  do  not  love 
him  so  much  as  I  imagined." 

After  supper  I  played  some  while  on 
the  piano.  Gabriel  and  Constance  sat 
very  far  apart,  but  I  should  not  have  felt 
it  had  they  sat  together.  At  ten  o'clock 
I  left  off. 

"Gabriel,"  said  I,  "I  shall  turn  you 
out  a  little  earlier  than  usual  to-night, 
because  I  want  to  walk  as  far  as  the  park 
with  you." 

Then,  for  a  second,  feeling  returned  to 
me;  there  came  a  little  flutter  of  fear 
within  me,  the  same  I  sometimes  felt  in 
childhood  when  I  had  told  a  lie  and, 
wanting  to  confess  it,  stood  at  my  mother's 
door  saying,  "  May  I  come  in?  " 

There  was  no  moon,  but  the  sky  was 
not  dark.  We  walked  through  the  garden 
in  silence;  once  or  twice  I  contrived  to 
force  up  to  my  lips,  by  great  effort,  the 
words  I  meant  to  speak;  but  then  my 


214         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

heart  beat  so  fearfully  that  I  felt  my 
courage  fail  me,  and  I  said  to  myself, 
time  after  time,  "Presently  will  do."  It 
was  not  active  love  for  Gabriel  that 
checked  me,  merely  the  actual  physical 
fear  that  I  suppose  most  people  experi- 
ence when  about  to  give  forth  words  of 
great  import. 

But  just  as  we  reached  the  shrubbery,  I 
said: 

"Gabriel,  I  have  something  to  tell 
you." 

"And  so  have  I,"  said  he,  "something 
to  tell  you.  But  you  first." 

"No,"  I  replied;  "you  first." 

It  was  for  one  moment  a  great  relief  to 
think  that  he  was  about  to  save  me  from 
the  trial  I  dreaded. 

We  took  a  few  more  steps  in  silence;  I 
was  looking  down,  not  at  him.  I  felt  my 
heart  beat  more  than  ever,  fear  was  still 
there,  but  of  a  different  kind;  I  awaited 


Postscript.  21$ 

his  words  as  one  might  await  a  death- 
blow. But  they  did  not  come.  Suddenly 
he  halted,  and  I,  too. 

"  Well?  "  said  I,  and  I  lifted  my  head. 

There  he  stood,  smiling  at  me. 

"  Do  you  remember  '  Peer  Gynt '  ?  " 
asked  he.  "That  was  the  bush." 

I  looked  at  the  laurel,  and  then  at  him 
again. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  I;  "that  was  the 
bush." 

His  dear  eyes  were  gazing  into  mine; 
I  could  not  look  away  again.  There  came 
a  tremor  over  all  my  body;  my  love  for 
him  swept  over  me  in  throbbing  waves  of 
pain;  I  fell  towards  him,  stifling  a  cry 
against  his  breast.  And  he,  wrapping  his 
arms  about  me,  strained  me  to  him  with 
great  force. 

"Emilia!"  he  cried,  "I  love  you  very 
much;  I  have  never  told  you  how  much  I 
love  you ! " 


216         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  knew  it  to  be  the  last  cry  of  his  con- 
science, but,  as  I  lay  there  listening  to  the 
beat  of  his  heart,  there  fled  from  me  what 
little  yet  remained  of  my  conquered 
spirit' s  strength  and  noble  purpose.  Only 
the  woman  in  me  cried  aloud,  "I  can- 
not!" 

I  tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  came 
almost  as  a  sob.  Quickly  I  threw  my 
arms  about  his  neck  and,  bending  his  face 
towards  me,  kissed  him  of  my  own  accord 
as  he  smiled;  then,  breaking  from  him, 
would  have  run  homewards. 

But  he  held  me  by  the  hand. 

"When  shall  I  come  to-morrow?" 
asked  he,  hoarsely. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  I.  "Go,  Gabriel! 
God  help  me;  I  love  you  too  much! " 

And  so  we  did  not  meet  next  day,  and 
the  next  we  were  married. 

For  many  months  I  made  believe  that 


Postscript.  217 

we  were  happy.  Ah !  it  was  not  all  make- 
belief !  I  have  had  great  joys. 

Never  was  the  game  of  happiness  easier 
to  play  at  than  it  was  for  Gabriel  and  me 
in  the  first  year  of  our  marriage.  He  was 
very  much  attached  to  me,  and  I  loved 
him. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  out  of 
England;  the  sights  he  saw  filled  him 
with  rapture  and  insatiable  curiosity,  to 
appease  which  I  led  him  from  place  to 
place  until  I  had  shown  him  all  I  knew, 
and  still  we  went  onwards,  covering  new 
ground  together. 

We  never  stayed  very  long  in  the  same 
spot;  a  certain  weariness  crept  over  me 
at  times,  but  I  saw  that  it  was  best  for 
him  to  keep  continually  on  the  wing; 
and  indeed,  having  no  desire  on  earth 
but  his  happiness,  I  was  ready,  for  his 
sake,  to  wander  my  whole  life  away. 
Moreover,  as  he  was  not  working  at  all 


218         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

the  while,  I  looked  forward  to  a  day  when 
inspiration  might  set  in,  together  with 
satiety,  when  he  too  might  yearn,  as  I 
did,  to  sit  in  peace  beside  a  hearth  of 
his  own. 

Constance  wrote  to  us  occasionally,  and 
I  to  her.  Her  letters  to  me  were  the  same 
as  of  old,  full  of  love  and  sweetness;  she 
nearly  always  mentioned  Gabriel,  but  not 
in  such  a  way  as  to  denote  preoccupation. 
My  letters  to  her  were  not  as  they  had 
been;  I  felt  this  at  the  time.  On  re- 
reading them  just  now  I  burned  them  all, 
—  there  was  no  breath  in  them. 

Mrs.  Rayner  had  taken  Fairview,  the 
nearest  house  to  Fletcher's  Hall,  soon 
after  my  marriage,  and  set  her  cap  at 
Uncle  George  with  so  much  persistence 
that  he  engaged  himself  to  her  the  follow- 
ing summer.  So  my  sweet  girl  stayed  on 
at  Graysmill.  Grandmamma's  letters, 
and  Aunt  Caroline's,  were  always  full  of 


Postscript.  219 

her,  of  the  comfort  her  sunny  presence 
brought  them;  my  father-in-law  and  Jane 
had  the  same  tale  to  tell. 

For  many  months  I  never  even  contem- 
plated the  possibility  of  returning  to 
England  with  my  husband.  There  is  no 
knowing  how  long  our  wanderings  might 
have  been,  but  for  my  illness.  Gabriel 
and  I  were  passing  through  Pisa  at  the 
end  of  June,  on  our  way  to  Lerici, 
whither  we  were  bent  on  pilgrimage, 
when  I  fell  ill. 

That  was  the  end  of  many  dreams. 
The  wheel  could  turn  no  more;  the  swift 
and  restless  life  of  day  to  day,  that  fled 
the  past  and  hung  back  from  the  morrow, 
was  checked  abruptly,  completely. 

But,  lying  in  that  little  bed  of  painted 
wood,  staring  at  the  net  curtains  and 
green  shutters,  at  the  lozenge  pattern  on 
the  wall,  at  the  cornucopiae  on  the  ceil- 
ing, a  clear  and  sober  sight  returned  to 


22O         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

me.  The  body  having  failed,  the  spirit 
found  its  strength. 

Our  sudden  halt  had  worked  swiftly  on 
Gabriel  also.  He  set  to  work;  the  restless- 
ness died  out  of  him,  but,  alas !  the  light- 
ness, too.  He  became  very  still,  silent 
and  self-absorbed.  In  the  cool  of  even- 
ing, the  time  of  day  when  I  was  strongest, 
I  used  to  turn  my  kind  little  nun  out  of 
the  room,  and  then  Gabriel  came  and 
read  to  me. 

At  first  he  had  tried  to  finish  the  long 
poem  begun  in  the  days  of  our  betrothal, 
but  he  soon  laid  that  aside,  and  another 
sprang  forward  with  extraordinary  rapid- 
ity. Perhaps  he  himself  was  hardly  aware 
of  the  sorrow  of  that  poem ;  perhaps  he 
thought  I  would  judge  it  so  entirely  as  a 
work  of  art  that  I  should  not  take  note  of 
its  deep  gloom,  of  its  hopeless  melancholy. 
But  nothing  was  lost  upon  me  now. 
I  read  it  in  every  line,  — he  suffered; 


Postscript.  22 1 

something  failed  him, —  perhaps  he  knew 
not  what,  perhaps  he  knew.  A  terrible 
loneliness  was  in  his  heart, — and  I  had 
given  him  all  I  had  to  give. 

On  the  fifteenth  of  July,  I  awoke  with  a 
sense  of  something  fresh  and  sweet;  a 
bunch  of  roses  lay  upon  my  pillow,  and 
Gabriel  stood  beside  my  bed.  The 
shutters  were  still  closed. 

"What?"  said  I,  "have  you  been  out 
already?  How  dear  of  you  this  is!  Is 
the  sun  shining?  " 

And  he  answered : 

"  Of  course,  what  should  it  do  but  shine 
on  our  wedding-day?" 

Then  he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  and  took  both  my  hands  in  his. 

"Emilia,"  said  he,  "you  have  made 
me  very  happy." 

But  I,  sitting  up,  bent  my  head  low 
over  his  hands  and  kissed  them;  my  loose 
hair  fell  forward,  he  did  not  see  the  tears 


222         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

that  stood  in  my  eyes.  I  knew  that  he 
had  lied. 

From  that  day  I  began  to  think  with  a 
purpose.  I  had  already  gained  sufficient 
mastery  over  myself,  sufficient  calm  and 
strength  of  spirit  to  be  able  to  do  so. 

I  can  hardly  call  it  a  struggle  that  fol- 
lowed. I  copied  out  and  laid  under  my 
pillow  the  words  of  the  covenant  we  had 
made  the  day  after  our  betrothal;  daily  I 
read  it  through,  and  recognised  how  we 
had  failed  towards  each  other,  and  towards 
our  best  beliefs. 

We  had  both  failed;  but,  whereas  he 
had  erred  merely,  I  knew  that  I  had 
sinned;  in  the  fulness  of  my  remorse, 
my  only  thought  was  now  to  offer  repara- 
tion. Nor  was  it'  only  for  Gabriel's  sake 
that  I  was  now  possessed  by  the  desire  of 
atonement.  In  the  blindness  of  human 
passion,  I  had  sinned  against  my  better 
self,  my  noblest  purposes,  my  most  firm 


Postscript.  223 

and  high  beliefs;  that  passion  conquered, 
I  determined  to  make  amends  for  my 
great  transgression  by  following,  regard- 
less of  pain  and  danger,  the  highest  path 
that  lay  within  the  range  of  my  vision, 
regardless  of  pain  to  myself,  regardless  of 
that  fear  of  the  world  which  so  often  leads 
us  to  accept  its  canons,  even  in  sight  of  a 
nobler  righteousness. 

Therefore  I  resolved  to  set  him  free;  I 
believed  this  to  be  possible,  although  my 
sight  was  clear,  my  spirit  calm.  But  he 
who  beholds  only  the  aerial  pathway  of  an 
ideal  right  may  stumble  and  fall  on  the 
stones  of  the  world.  It  was  only  given 
me  later  to  realise,  through  grief  too  ter- 
rible for  words,  that,  given  the  world  as 
the  world  is,  there  are  wrongs  that  are 
irrevocable,  lies  that,  once  lied,  no  truth 
can  ever  wipe  away. 

Meanwhile,   health    returned    to   me. 


224         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

We  stayed  at  Pisa  until  I  was  convalescent, 
then  moved  to  the  sea.  His  poem  and 
my  thoughts  occupied  us  severally;  they 
were  good  and  peaceful  days.  Now  and 
again  the  heart  rebelled  against  the 
severity  of  the  spirit,  but,  take  it  all  in 
all,  a  great  calm  was  upon  me. 

One  evening  in  September,  Gabriel  and 
I  were  leaning  out  of  my  window;  it  was 
almost  dark;  the  occasional  footfall  of  a 
passenger  fell  on  the  -stones  of  our  quiet 
street;  some  men  were  singing  in  the 
trattoria  round  the  corner;  we  two  leant 
there  in  silence,  counting  the  stars  as  they 
came. 

"Gabriel,"  said  I,  "I  have  had  a  letter 
from  Constance.  I  am  afraid  she  is  not 
very  happy  at  Graysmill;  her  mother 
worries  her;  she  sounds  lonely  and  not 
over  well.  Shall  we  go  home  a  while  ?  " 

Gabriel  shifted  his  feet,  and  turned  the 
latch  of  the  shutter  round  and  round. 


Postscript.  225 

"No,"  he  replied;  "I  think  not;  I 
mean,  if  you  feel  you  want  to  see  Con- 
stance, go,  Emilia,  only  don't  leave  me 
too  long.  I  had  rather  stay  here.  I  have 
been  thinking  it  over  of  late,  and  I  see 
no  reason  why  I  should  ever  return  to 
England." 

"But,  dearest  one,"  said  I,  "your 
father!" 

"  I  have  thought  of  that.  I  long  to  see 
him,  and  Jane,  too.  You  go  home, 
Emilia,  and  bring  them  back  with  you. 
We  four  can  live  out  here  in  Italy  forever, 
live  and  die  here." 

"But  Constance?"  said  I,  then. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  The  latch 
of  the  shutter  whirled  round  and  round. 

"Oh,  Constance,"  said  he;  "yes,  it's 
hard  on  Constance.  She  will  have  to  live 
with  her  mother  and  your  step-uncle,  I 
suppose." 

"  No,"  I  replied;  "  I  should  never  allow 

Q 


226         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

that.  But  we  can  arrange  about  Con- 
stance when  we  see  her;  we  can  talk  it 
over  together.  I  cannot  go  without  you, 
Gabriel.  There  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  stay  there  long,  —  only  come  with 
me  you  must." 

He  held  out  for  some  days,  but  in  the 
end  I  conquered.  We  passed  through 
Florence  on  the  way,  and  there  beside  my 
mother's  grave  I  put  forth  the  first,  the 
only  prayer  I  ever  made, —  a  wordless 
yearning  towards  the  Inconceivable,  a 
prayer  for  strength  and  the  Light  of  Truth. 

We  reached  Graysmill  on  the  nine- 
teenth of  September.  My  impatience 
was  so  great  that,  in  spite  of  Gabriel's 
displeasure  at  what  he  called  my  rashness, 
I  would  not  stay  in  London  on  the  way, 
but  we  travelled  straight  down,  reaching 
Fletcher's  Hall  at  midnight. 

Aunt  Caroline  was  down  to  receive  us, 


Postscript.  227 

for  I  had  sent  a  telegram  from  Dover; 
upstairs,  my  dear  old  woman  was  sitting 
up  in  bed  with  sweet,  wrinkled  smiles  be- 
neath her  frilled  night-cap.  I  was  very 
glad  to  be  home  again;  my  heart  felt  warm. 

I  sent  Aunt  Caroline  to  bed,  much 
against  her  will,  and  then  Gabriel  and  I 
sat  down  to  drink  the  tea  he  had  wished 
for,  beside  the  fire  in  the  breakfast-room. 
Gabriel  was  very  white,  his  eyes  shone 
all  too  brightly;  again  and  again  I  saw 
him  put  his  hand  to  his  brow,  a  trick  he 
had  when  he  was  nervous. 

"Dear,"  said  I,  "don't  drink  so  much 
tea;  it's  very  bad  for  you,  you  will  never 
sleep  to-night." 

"No,"  said  he;  "I  am  sure  I  couldn't 
sleep  anyway.  I  think  I  shan't  stay  here, 
Emilia,  if  you  don't  mind.  I  feel  very 
impatient  to  see  my  father;  the  night  is 
fine,  I  shall  walk  over  to  the  Cottage,  and 
take  him  by  surprise." 


228          The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

I  was  just  looking  at  him,  wondering 
how  to  meet  this  mood,  when  there  came 
a  light  tap  at  the  window,  a  French  win- 
dow that  opened  on  to  the  lawn. 

"Hark!"  said  I. 

We  listened;  again  it  came,  again;  and 
then  a  little  voice  calling,  "  Emilia ! 
Emilia!" 

"  It  is  Constance !  "  I  cried,  and,  spring- 
ing to  my  feet,  I  flung  open  curtain  and 
shutter  and  window. 

There  she  stood  in  the  dark,  with  the 
light  of  the  room  upon  her.  She  was  in 
black,  with  a  dark  shawl  wrapped  round 
her  head;  I  could  see  nothing  clearly  save 
the  white,  outstretched  hands,  the  pale 
sweet  face,  with  its  halo  of  burnished 
curls. 

She  sprang  towards  me  with  a  little  sob, 
and  we  laughed  and  cried  together  as  I 
clasped  her  to  me,  covering  her  beloved 
face  with  kisses.  I  was  still  holding  her 


Postscript.  229 

fast  when  she  perceived  Gabriel;  from 
the  stronghold  of  my  arms,  with  her  head 
still  resting  on  my  bosom,  she  turned 
towards  him  and  held  out  her  hand.  I 
looked  neither  at  him  nor  at  her,  but, 
bending  away,  laid  my  cheek  upon  her 
curls. 

And  it  was  thus  they  met  again. 

Of  the  days  that  immediately  followed, 
there  is  not  much  to  tell.  Any  doubt  I 
might  have  entertained  as  to  the  con- 
tinuance of  their  mutual  passion  vanished 
swiftly  and  entirely.  The  path  of  duty 
lay  very  clear  before  me. 

I  saw  more  of  Constance  than  of 
Gabriel  in  those  days;  we  were  almost 
always  together,  and  he  avoided  us. 
Richard  Norton,  who  had  greatly  aged  in 
the  year  of  our  absence,  was  so  happy  in 
his  son  that  Gabriel  had  every  excuse  for 
spending  the  greater  part  of  his  time  at 
the  Cottage.  Indeed,  he  usually  left  me 


230         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

directly  after  breakfast,  and  did  not  return 
until  supper-time. 

He  wrote  a  great  deal,  out  in  the  woods 
and  in  his  old  room.  The  poem  was 
approaching  completion,  and  this,  in  fact, 
was  the  reason  why  for  fifteen  days  I  de- 
ferred the  execution  of  my  purpose. 

The  sufferings  we  all  three  experienced 
daily  at  this  time,  when  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  entirely  avoid  each  other's  pres- 
ence, were  endurable  to  me,  and  I  sought 
to  help  Constance  to  bear  them.  To  him 
they  were,  so  to  speak,  a  source  of  inspira- 
tion; and  I  therefore  determined  to  let 
things  run  their  course  until  the  last  line 
should  be  written. 

On  the  fourth  of  October,  —  it  was 
Saturday,  —  I,  having  a  headache,  did  not 
get  up  to  breakfast,  and  Gabriel  left  before 
nine  o'clock  for  the  Thatched  Cottage. 
My  sweet  Constance  spent  the  entire 
morning  with  me.  She  had  brought  a 


Postscript.  231 

hat  to  trim,  but  the  work  did  not  proceed. 
It  was  a  black  felt  hat,  I  remember,  and 
I  trimmed  it  for  her.  She  herself  was  in 
one  of  her  childlike  moods,  winsome 
and  gay  atop  of  the  sorrow  that  had  made 
her  pale  cheek  paler,  and  set  blue  rings 
about  her  dear  eyes. 

I  was  alone  all  the  afternoon,  and 
copied  out  for  the  last  time  a  letter  to  my 
husband,  on  which  I  had  lately  expended 
many  hours.  I  felt  strong  and  sure  of 
myself;  it  was  not  cowardice  that  led  me 
to  write  to  him  instead  of  saying  to  his 
face  all  that  I  had  to  say.  But  there  was 
no  telling  in  what  mood  I  should  find 
him,  were  I  to  speak.  He  might  refuse 
to  listen;  he  might  move  me  to  momen- 
tary indecision  by  manner,  look,  or  words; 
I  preferred  to  write  it  all  down  clearly, 
to  make  sure  that  what  I  had  to  say  would 
not  run  the  risk  of  being  left  unsaid 
through  the  interposition  of  unforeseen 
and  incalculable  emotions. 


232         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

At  the  approach  of  supper-time,  I 
dressed  and  went  into  the  drawing-room. 
We  were  expecting  Constance  and  Mrs. 
Rayner,  the  vicar,  and  Uncle  George. 
My  old  dears  and  I  had  half  an  hour  to 
ourselves  before  any  of  them  came. 
Gabriel  was  very  late;  our  last  guest 
had  already  arrived  when  I  heard  him 
come  in  and  rush  up  to  our  room. 

When  he  came  down,  he  was  pale  in 
the  extreme,  and  his  eyes  danced  in  his 
head.  I  went  up  to  him  and  drew  him 
aside,  towards  the  window. 

"Well?"  said  I,  softly,  "what's  the 
matter  with  him?" 

He  flushed  and  took  my  hands,  press- 
ing them  nervously. 

"  Finished ! "  he  whispered.  "  I  have 
done,  Emilia, —  the  last  line  is  written." 

I  looked  up  at  him  with  gladness  in 
my  face. 

"You  must  read  it  me  this  evening," 
said  I. 


Postscript.  233 

There  came  a  flash  of  light  before  my 
inward  eye, —  the  joy  of  his  achievement, 
—  then  it  fell  in  broken  showers,  all  fell. 
I  had  a  sense  as  of  sinking  into  space, 
and  all  was  dark  within  me. 

"  Go  and  give  your  arm  to  Aunt  Caro- 
line," said  I,  pressing  his  hand  as  I  let 
it  go. 

I  myself  went  into  supper  with  the 
vicar.  We  did  not  sit  long  at  table. 
Uncle  George,  Mrs.  Rayner,  and  Mr. 
Dobb  sat  down  immediately  after  to  a 
rubber  of  whist  with  Aunt  Caroline; 
grandmamma  fell  asleep.  I  turned  the 
lamp-shade  towards  her  face,  and  my 
pretty  Constance  covered  her  well  with  a 
shawl;  then,  taking  my  dear  one  by  the 
waist,  I  walked  with  her  to  where  Gabriel 
stood  at  the  chimney. 

"I  have  had  an  inspiration,"  said  I. 
"  Come,  we  will  slip  away  to  Fairview  and 
spend  the  evening  alone,  we  three;  then 


234         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

Gabriel  can  read  us  the  last  canto, —  will 
you?" 

I  had  already  read  the  first  part  of  the 
poem  to  Constance,  with  his  permis- 
sion. 

Neither  of  them  uttered  a  word. 

"Come,"  said  I;  "Constance  and  I  will 
set  off  at  once,  our  things  are  in  the 
hall.  Run  up  and  fetch  your  manuscript, 
Gabriel." 

I  put  my  foot  through  the  flounce  of 
my  petticoat  on  the  way,  so  Constance 
took  me  up  to  her  room  for  a  needle  and 
cotton.  When  we  came  down  again, 
Gabriel  was  in  the  morning-room ;  he  had 
drawn  up  the  blind  and  was  watching  the 
moon. 

"I  call  this  very  nice,"  said  I.  "Our 
party  is  the  better  of  the  two." 

Constance  lighted  the  lamp,  and  we  sat 
down,  all  three,  at  the  table,  —  Gabriel 
with  his  back  to  the  window,  Constance 


Postscript.  235 

opposite  him,  and  I  between  them,  to 
the  right  of  the  table. 

Then  he  began  to  read. 

How  it  went  with  them  I  know  not,  but 
I  was  soon  entirely  lost  in  what  I  heard. 
With  my  head  upon  my  arm  I  listened, 
the  visions  that  he  conjured  filled  my 
eyes,  the  music  of  his  words  engrossed 
my  ears;  more  beautiful  in  form  and  pur- 
pose than  anything  he  yet  had  written, 
this  last  canto  filled  me  with  joy  and 
pride. 

When  the  last  words  fell,  I  did  not  raise 
my  head  from  the  table.  Heaven  knows 
why,  but  I  did  not  want  to  let  them  see, 
not  even  them,  that  the  tears  were  gushing 
from  my  eyes. 

I  heard  Gabriel  collect  his  papers  and 
put  them  into  his  pocket;  still  none  of 
us  spoke.  It  seemed  time  to  break  the 
silence.  I  lifted  my  head  and  looked  up 
at  my  poet. 


236         The  Wings  of  Icarus, 

There  he  sat  with  head  thrown  back  and 
quivering  lips;  his  eyes,  wide  with 
mingled  fear  and  yearning,  were  fixed 
upon  Constance,  whose  white,  uplifted 
face  was  as  the  mirror  of  his  own.  It 
was  for  an  instant  only;  the  next,  they 
turned  to  me. 

And  so  the  tale  was  told;  we  sat  there, 
we  three,  blenched  and  panic-stricken, 
gazing  into  each  other's  eyes. 

The  time  had  come.  I  rose,  took  their 
hands,  and  laid  them  together  on  the 
table.  I  would  have  said  something, 
but  no  words  came;  so,  smiling  simply 
into  the  face  of  each,  I  bent  and  kissed 
the  intertwining  fingers,  then  left  the 
room.  I  groped  my  way  into  the  garden, 
and,  standing  on  a  flower-bed  beneath  the 
window,  looked  in  upon  them.  They 
sat  as  I  had  left  them,  with  clasped 
hands  and  mingled  gaze.  I  think  it  was 
Constance  that  moved  first,  I  am  not  sure, 


Postscript.  237 

but  they  rose  suddenly  and  fell  into  each 
other's  arms.  For  an  instant  I  looked 
upon  them  with  a  strange  sense  of  exulta- 
tion, as  if,  perhaps,  I  were  the  Spirit  of 
Love,  and  not  a  jealous  woman.  But 
when  he  turned  back  her  white  face  with 
his  hand  and  bent  over  her,  all  the  woman 
in  me  returned.  I  saw  her  little  hands 
clutch  him  convulsively,  she  gave  a  low 
cry,  —  and  then  I  slipped  from  the  win- 
dow on  to  the  ground. 

How  long  I  crouched  there  I  cannot 
tell;  I  felt  as  one  must  feel  that  has  been 
buried  for  dead  and  awakes  in  the  grave. 
There  was  mignonette  beside  me,  and 
a  clump  of  southern  wood.  It  was  the 
sound  of  some  one  bounding  down  the 
steps  that  roused  me.  Gabriel  had  left 
her.  I  got  up  and  shook  my  clothes, 
walking  to  and  fro  on  the  lawn.  When 
at  length  I  thought  of  going  home,  I 
remembered  that  I  had  left  my  things  in 


238         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

Constance's  room,  and  that  it  might  seem 
strange  in  me  to  arrive  at  the  house  bare- 
headed. So  I  went  upstairs.  The  pas- 
sage was  not  quite  dark;  I  could  just  see 
that  Constance  lay  outside  her  bedroom 
door.  I  stooped  and  tried  to  raise  her, 
but  she  flung  herself  to  my  knees,  crying : 

"Emilia!  — O  my  God!" 

"  Hush !  "  said  I ;  "  come  into  the  room. 
Hush!  the  servants  might  hear  you." 

So  I  drew  her  in  and  would  have  laid 
her  on  her  bed;  but  again  she  fell  down 
and  clasped  my  knees. 

"Dear!"  she  cried;  "dear,  you  loved 
me  so,  and  this  is  what  I  have  done.  Oh, 
Emilia,  forgive  me !  —  Emilia,  forgive 
me,  oh,  forgive  me !  " 

I  told  her  that  she  was  forgiven.  I 
cooled  her  forehead  with  water,  and  at 
length  laid  her  upon  the  bed.  She  clung 
to  me  piteously  as  I  was  leaving. 

"Kiss  me  good  night,"  she  murmured. 


Postscript.  239 

I  had  not  felt  that  I  could  kiss  her,  but 
I  stooped  and  touched  her  slightly  on  the 
brow,  at  the  root  of  the  curls.  Then  I 
left  her,  feeling  all  the  way  the  clutch  of 
her  little  fingers  on  my  arm. 

As  I  slipped  up  to  my  room,  I  had  to 
pass  the  drawing-room  door;  it  was  ajar, 
and  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  them  all  as 
they  sat  at  the  card-table  under  the  green- 
shaded  lamp. 

"Honours  divided,  Miss  Seymour, 
honours  divided,"  said  the  vicar;  and 
as  I  slowly  made  my  way  upstairs  I  heard 
the  clatter  of  teacups  and  Mrs.  Rayner's 
thin  laugh. 

I  went  past  the  room  I  had  shared  with 
Gabriel,  and  made  my  way  to  the  topmost 
floor,  to  the  room  that  was  formerly  mine. 
It  was  in  disorder,  and  nearly  bare.  I 
lighted  a  candle,  but  the  sight  of  the 
dreariness  oppressed  me;  I  therefore 


240         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

blew  it  out  again,  and  leant  out  of  the 
open  window. 

It  was  a  cool  night,  and  dark,  for  clouds 
had  hidden  the  moon;  the  chimes  rang 
the  quarters;  they  seemed  to  follow  close 
upon  each  other,  and  still  I  stood  at  the 
window.  I  heard  Mrs.  Rayner  go,  and 
her  escort,  Uncle  George,  return.  "  B-rrr, " 
he  went,  as  he  stamped  up  the  steps. 
"How  his  keys  jingle,"  thought  I;  "and 
is  it  so  cold?" 

I  cannot  remember  that  I  thought  much 
of  what  had  happened;  my  senses  were 
very  keen,  but  emotion  was  torpid.  I 
took  note  of  every  barking  dog,  every 
distant  wheel;  sometimes  I  sang  a  little 
to  myself,  and,  all  the  while,  I  worked 
my  foot  to  and  fro  along  the  skirting. 

Presently  Uncle  George  left  for  good, 
taking  the  vicar  with  him.  The  servants 
came  to  bed,  giggling  under  their  breath; 
then  all  was  still. 


Postscript.  241 

I  did  not  leave  the  window,  but  in  the 
silence  —  there  being  now  no  sound  to 
arrest  my  attention,  save  the  chimes 
which  I  forgot  to  hear  —  a  change  came 
over  me.  I  fell  into  a  sort  of  dream; 
scene  after  scene  the  past  rose  before  me 
in  bright  visions;  then  came  the  present, 
chaos.  I  stood,  as  it  were,  in  the  centre 
of  nothingness,  alone  and  lost,  not  a 
sound,  not  a  light,  not  a  finger  to  touch. 

"What  matter,"  thought  I,  —  "what 
matter  if  I  live  or  die?  Surely  it  is  in 
this  state  that  people  kill  themselves." 

I  heard  the  chimes  again,  and  a  duck 
quacked  in  the  pond;  it  was  as  the  laugh 
of  a  devil. 

I  turned  from  the  window  and  stumbled 
over  something;  I  lighted  a  candle,  and 
sat  shivering  on  the  shrouded  bed. 

"Two  o'clock,"  thought  I;  "it  is  very 
cold.  What  shall  I  do?  Shall  I  sleep 
or  die?" 

R 


242         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

And,  as  it  were  with  a  flash,  there  came 
to  me  the  thought  that  perhaps  I  was  not 
the  only  one  who  sat  at  this  moment 
coldly  contemplating  death.  An  awful 
fear  seized  me  that  perhaps  he,  Gabriel, 
might  be  driven  to  the  haven  of  de- 
spairers. 

I  threw  on  my  cloak,  and,  carrying  my 
shoes,  slowly  and  breathlessly  crept  down 
the  stairs  to  the  back  door,  which  had  a 
light  fastening.  And  I  ran  across  garden 
and  park,  across  Graysmill  Heath  in  the 
night,  strengthened  by  one  fear  against 
all  others,  nor  did  I  stop  until  I  stood  on 
the  little  hillock  within  sight  of  the 
Thatched  Cottage. 

I  saw  at  once  that  a  light  was  burning 
in  the  window  of  Gabriel's  old  room.  I 
sprang  on  and  halted  once  more  on  the 
grass-patch  before  the  Cottage  door.  The 
blind  was  down,  a  shadow  passed  to  and 
fro.  I  could  see  very  well  by  the  way  he 


Postscript.  243 

moved  that  he  was  not  calm.  I  wanted 
to  get  to  him.  I  tried  the  house  door, 
but  it  was  firmly  fastened.  I  sat  down 
on  the  ground  and  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on 
the  window.  He  stooped  repeatedly; 
once,  as  he  swept  the  hair  back  from  his 
eyes,  I  thought  I  saw  that  he  held  some- 
thing in  his  hand.  I  picked  up  a  stone, 
ready  to  throw  it  at  the  window,  but  my 
courage  failed  me;  then  I  noticed  that 
the  light  flickered  strangely,  as  from  fire; 
it  faded,  and  all  was  dark. 

I  strained  my  ears  in  vain  for  a  sound; 
a  horrible  fear  seized  me.  I  flung  my 
little  stone,  but  it  was  very  dark;  I  heard 
it  strike  the  bricks.  Groping  for  more, 
I  flung  another,  and  yet  another.  One 
of  them  struck  the  panes;  I  stood  and 
held  my  breath,  —  no  sound. 

I  made  my  way  to  the  door  again,  tried 
it  again;  I  laid  my  ear  to  the  key-hole, 
and  then  I  distinctly  heard  the  creaking 


244         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

of  the  stairs;  some  one  was  coming  down. 
The  hall  was  crossed,  the  bolt  of  the  door 
was  gently  drawn.  I  fell  back  a  little; 
some  one  came  out  with  a  firm  step,  and 
sprang  on  to  the  path. 

It  was  a  mere  shadow  that  I  could  see; 
I  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"Gabriel,"  I  said,  "where  are  you 
going?" 

He  started  violently,  and  something 
fell  from  his  hand. 

"You?"  he  cried.  "Why  are  you 
here?  Emilia!  you  have  come  too 
soon ! " 

I  remember  that  I  clutched  his  wrists, 
as  if  in  fear  that  he  might  even  then  lift 
his  hand  against  himself. 

"You  coward!"  was  all  I  said;  "oh, 
you  coward!"  He  did  not  answer  me, 
and  we  stood  so  a  while.  Then  he  said 
gently : 

"Your  hands  are  cold,  my  girl;  let  us 
go  in."  "^V 


Postscript.  245 

We  made  our  way  into  the  study.  After 
some  groping,  we  found  the  matches  and 
lighted  a  candle.  Gabriel  sat  down  by 
the  table  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 
I  went  to  him  and  stroked  his  hair. 

"Poor  boy,"  I  said;  "I  guessed  how  it 
would  be;  that's  why  I  came." 

He  stood  up  hastily. 

"Don't  touch  me!  "  he  cried;  "I  have 
done  you  a  fearful  wrong;  there  was  only 
one  atonement  I  could  make,  and  that 
you  have  prevented.  Emilia,  leave  me. 
You  should  not  have  come." 

I  forget  how  I  told  him;  but  I  told  him 
then  how,  in  joining  their  hands  together, 
I  had  meant  them  to  understand  that  I 
resigned  him  to  her.  I  told  him  how 
long  I  had  known  of  their  most  natural 
love,  confessed  my  struggles,  my  defeat, 
and  acknowledged  to  the  full  the  sin  I 
had  committed  in  marrying  him  in  spite 
of  what  I  knew.  I  reminded  him,  too, 


246         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

of  our  covenant,  of  the  beliefs  and  aspi- 
rations we  had  shared,  and  implored  him 
to  accept  his  liberty. 

"I  know  little  of  the  laws,"  said  I, 
"but  if  they  refuse  to  part  us,  why,  we 
must  part  ourselves.  If  human  justice  is 
so  far  removed  from  righteousness,  why, 
we  must  rise  above  it,  and  never  mind  the 
world.  'Tis  a  wide  place.  Take  her 
and  make  her  happy  where  none  knows. 
The  worst  of  my  pain  is  past." 

But  Gabriel  still  insisted  on  the  neces- 
sity of  his  death.  "Your  dreams  are 
wild!"  he  cried.  "There's  but  one  way. 
I  have  robbed  you  of  all  you  had,  of  hus- 
band and  friend.  If  I  die,  you,  at  least, 
have  reparation.  I  have  thought  it  well 
over;  I  am  as  calm  as  you.  My  poems 
lie  in  ashes  in  the  grate.  My  life  is 
done." 

We  talked  very  long,  very  quietly,  until 
the  dawn  peeped  through  the  cracks  of 


Postscript.  247 

the  shutters.  And  at  last  he  gave  me  his 
word  that  he  would  live. 

Having  this  promise,  I  rose. 

"It  is  morning,"  said  I;  "we  are  not 
fit  to  talk  further.  To-morrow  we  must 
seek  our  way.  Go,  Gabriel,  and  try  to 
sleep;  I  will  go  upstairs  to  Jane." 

As  we  crossed  the  hall,  he  ran  out  into 
the  garden,  and  I  followed  him.  It  was 
very  cold,  and  I  shivered,  chilled  by  the 
dawn  of  a  hopeless  day. 

He  stooped  on  the  path  before  me,  and 
picked  up  the  revolver  he  had  dropped, 
looking  at  me  with  a  queer  smile.  But 
the  thought  that  he  might  even  then  be 
lying  lifeless  was  brought  to  my  mind 
with  sickening  vividness.  I  reeled,  and 
would  have  fallen,  had  he  not  caught  me 
in  his  arms. 

"  I  am  a  fool,"  said  I;  "  I  saw  you  dead 
among  the  leaves." 

He  took  my  hands  and  kissed  them, 
murmuring : 


248         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

"Emilia  —  dear  Emilia!"  And  then 
I  made  my  way  up  the  creaking  stairs, 
and  roused  poor  Jane,  who  lay  asleep 
with  her  head  under  the  bed-clothes.  I 
told  her  there  had  been  some  trouble  she 
should  know  of  to-morrow,  and,  being 
half  asleep,  she  did  not  question  me, 
but  made  room  for  me  in  her  bed. 

I  must  have  fallen  asleep  towards  ris- 
ing-time, for  I  did  not  hear  her  get  up; 
but  when  she  was  nearly  dressed  I  awoke 
and  got  up  also,  begging  her  to  excuse  my 
explanations  yet  a  little,  as  I  was  very 
tired. 

Gabriel  got  down  at  the  same  time  as  I 
did.  Richard  Norton  was  always  a  lie-a- 
bed, so  poor  Jane  was  alone  to  puzzle  out 
the  secret  of  our  haggard  faces.  It  was 
not  early;  it  must  have  been  nearly  ten 
o'clock  when  Aunt  Caroline  arrived.  The 
poor  thing  burst  into  tears  when  she  saw 
me. 


Postscript.  249 

"  Thank  Mercy !  "  she  cried ;  "  oh,  what 
a  fright  we've  had!  Why  must  you  go 
out  so  early  in  the  morning,  before  the 
house  is  up,  and  no  message,  too." 

I  made  some  little  joke  to  laugh  it  off; 
Gabriel  laughed  also;  we  offered  her  some 
breakfast,  and  it  was  then  that  she  said : 

"I  must  go  back  at  once;  I  promised 
Mrs.  Rayner  to  bring  back  Constance 
immediately." 

Gabriel  and  I  were  standing  side  by 
side;  we  looked  at  each  other,  and  he 
must  have  read  the  same  sudden  fear  in 
my  eye  that  I  read  in  his. 

"Come,  "said  I. 

We  left  Aunt  Caroline  at  the  Cottage, 
and  drove  together  in  all  haste,  and  in 
perfect  silence,  to  Fairview. 

Mrs.  Rayner  was  at  breakfast  when  we 
entered  the  dining-room;  I  can  see  her 
still,  with  her  egg- spoon  in  her  hand. 

"  You  are  fine  people !  "  she  said,  "  but 


250         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

please  remember  another  time  that  Con- 
stance is  not  such  a  horse  as  you  are, 
and  can't  stand  exercise  on  an  empty 
stomach." 

I  stared  stupidly,  and  then  I  said,  but 
my  voice  was  so  low  that  I  scarcely 
heard  it: 

"We  have  not  seen  Constance  this 
morning." 

Mrs.  Rayner  gave  a  shrill  scream. 

"My  child!"  she  cried,  "where  is  my 
child ! "  and  ran  from  the  room.  Gabriel 
and  I  stood  motionless  where  she  had  left 
us,  and  clasped  our  cold  hands. 

"  Emilia  Fletcher ! "  called  Mrs.  Rayner 
from  upstairs,  with  a  hard  ring  in  her 
voice,  "come  up;  I  want  you  a  minute." 

And  I  went  up.  The  bed  was  tumbled, 
but  she  had  not  slept  in  it;  her  hat  and 
cloak  were  gone.  I  sat  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed  and  shook  from  head  to  foot; 
Mrs.  Rayner  was  running  to  and  fro  like 
a  mad  woman. 


Postscript.  251 

"  She  is  gone !  Where  is  she  gone  ?  I 
never  said  good  night  to  her ! "  she 
shrieked.  "Mrs.  Norton,  you  saw  her 
last,  you  must  know  something  of  it. 
Here  are  her  boots,  she  must  have  gone 
out  in  her  shoes;  the  soles  were  fliin, 
she'll  catch  her  death  of  cold!"  And 
she  ran  to  the  door,  crying,  "Constance! 
Constance ! " 

I  made  my  way  to  the  dressing-table;  I 
remembered  to  have  seen  her  purse  upon 
it  when  I  went  up  to  mend  my  dress  the 
evening  before.  It  was  gone,  but  in  its 
place  I  found  a  little  note  with  my  name 
upon  it. 

I  ran  with  it  to  Gabriel;  I  could  not 
read  it  alone.  "A  letter,"  was  all  I  said, 
and  we  read  it  in  the  bay-window,  stand- 
ing side  by  side. 

"  Emilia,  dearest,  you  have  given  me  so 
much,  and  now  I  have  sinned  against 


252         The  Wings  of  Icarus. 

you.  You  forgave  me  with  your  lips  just 
now;  forgive  me  with  your  heart  when  I 
am  dead.  You  must  not  blame  me  for 
what  I  do,  you  know  I  was  always  very 
weak;  I  cannot  look  you  in  the  eyes 
again,  nor  him.  God  will  forgive  me,  I 
think.  Good-bye.  Be  happy, —  neither 
you  nor  he  must  grieve  for  me;  it  is  a 
poor  little  life  that  I  throw  away,  and  all 
the  good  I  ever  knew  came  from  you  or 
him.  Be  happy  —  Emilia,  my  old  Emilia, 
good-bye." 

She  was  found  towards  evening,  many 
miles  from  Miltonhoe,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Avon.  Gabriel  and  I  had  been  up  and 
down  the  land  all  day,  following  her 
traces. 

When  we  heard  that  she  was  found,  we 
parted. 

THE  END. 


AN  AUTHOR'S   LOVE. 

Being  the  Unpublished  Letters  of 
PROSPER   MERIMEE'S   "INCONNUE." 


Cloth.    «1.00. 


"  The  capriciousness,  the  coquetry,  the  tenderness,  —  the 
womanliness,  in  short,  which  makes  the  letters  in  '  An 
Author's  Love '  so  charming,  reconcile  you  to  the  audacity 
which  has  dared  to  assume  the  feminine  side  of  this  world- 
famous  correspondence."  —  Boston  Herald. 

"  The  dainty  touches  everywhere  present  in  the  volume 
rival  the  exquisite  manner  of  Merime'e  himself.  One  traces 
and  unconsciously  accepts  as  a  veracious  narrative  the 
record  of  a  fantastic  though  abiding  love.  No  woman  in 
the  flesh  could  write  more  winsomely."  —  Philadelphia 
Press. 

"  They  are  full  of  delightful  gossip,  reminiscence,  anec- 
dote, and  description,  and  are  charmingly  written  through- 
out." —  Chicago  Daily  News. 

"  They  are  gay  and  melancholy  by  turn,  full  of  womanly 
passion  dashed  with  coquetry,  now  sparkling  with  the 
sprightliest  wit,  now  charged  with  the  most  reckless  tender- 
ness, implying  a  relationship  which  should  satisfy  the  most 
exacting  of  men."  —  Eclectic  Magazine. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO., 

66  FIFTH  AVENUE,         -        NEW  YORK. 


DROLLS 
FROM  SHADOWLAND. 

BY 

J.  H.  PEARCE, 

Author  of   "  Esther  Pentreath,"  "  Inconsequent  Lives," 
"  Jaco  Treloar,"  etc. 


16mo.    Cloth.    $1.25. 


"  They  are  so  simple  at  first  sight  that  one  is  surprised  by 
their  depth  of  suggestion,  which  satisfies  Milton's  defini- 
tion of  the  old  tales  of  enchantment,  '  where  more  is  meant 
than  meets  the  ear,'  and  the  curiosity  of  it  is  that  the 
impression  left  on  the  mind  of  the  reader  is  that  of  poetry 
urging  its  way  into  words  —  unwritten  poetry.  .  .  .  There 
is  genius  of  an  uncommon  kind  in  these  '  Drolls  from 
Shadowland.'  "  —  Mail  and  Express. 

" '  Drolls  from  Shadowland,'  by  J.  H.  Pearce,  is  a  work 
of  a  flavor  or  timbre  (or  however  else  we  may  metaphor 
the  quality  too  subtle  to  define)  so  delicate  that  it  may 
escape  recognition  for  a  time.  In  this  it  only  meets  the 
fate  of  all  really  superior  art.  The  'Drolls  are  short, 
abrupt,  fantastic  stories,  beautiful  to  read  from  their  deep 
imagination  and  haunting  in  their  allegorical  depth.  .  .  . 
Mournful,  but  not  bitter;  brief,  but  not  slight;  subtle,  but 
not  obscure  in  their  hidden  meanings,  the  '  Drolls '  suggest 
nothing  in  English  Literature.  Their  art  is  as  consummate 
as  Daudet's.  Their  mysterious  poetry  brings  them  nearer 
to  Brentano  and  Hoffmann.  Their  lightly  veiled  allegories 
are  of  human  life  now  and  always.  This  is  a  masterpiece." 
—  The  Boston  Traveller. 


MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS, 
66  FIFTH   AVENUE,          -         NEW  YORK. 


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